Chapter IX: Part 9

Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s contest for County Wexford, omitted by
all his pseudo-biographers—Duel of Mr. Alcock and Mr. Colclough
(candidates), on a question respecting Mr. Sheridan’s poll—Colclough
killed—A lamentable incident—Mr. Alcock’s trial—He afterward goes mad
and dies—His sister, Miss Alcock, also dies lunatic in
consequence—Marquess of Ely tried for an outrage at Wexford, and
fined.

It is to be lamented that the biographers and eulogists of Richard Brinsley Sheridan should have suppressed some of the most creditable incidents of his variegated life, while his memory is disgraced by pretended friends and literary admirers.

These writers have raked up from his ashes, and exposed to public indignation, every failing of that great and gifted man:—so that, if their own productions were by any chance to become permanent, they would send him down to posterity as a witty, but low and dissipated _sharper_; or, in their very best colouring, as the most talented of mean and worthless mendicants. But Sheridan’s reputation will outlive all such attempts to obliterate it; while the ignorance of his libellers is conspicuous from their entire omission of some of the most interesting events of his career, at the same time that others are vouched for, which to my individual knowledge are gross misrepresentations.

Among the incidents that have been overlooked is one both extraordinary and melancholy, and forming an honourable comment on Mr. Sheridan’s public character. I was myself interested in the transaction;—and can give it on my own responsibility. I am, indeed, most anxious to rescue his memory from the rough hands which, in sketching their subject, have placed the mane of the lion upon the shoulders of a mountebank.

In speaking thus, I deeply regret that one of these biographers should be a man whom I esteem; and I regret it the more, since he has used poor Sheridan as a chopping-block, whereon to hack the character of the most illustrious person of the British empire, who (for the first time in his life, I believe) has been accused of _pecuniary illiberality_. A circumstance accidentally came to my knowledge to _prove_ that charge the very reverse of truth. But an opportunity will be taken by me of observing still more explicitly on these _friends_ of Mr. Sheridan.

At the general election of 1807, Mr. John Colclough, of Tintern Abbey, County Wexford, a near relative of mine, (and _locum tenens_ of his elder-brother, Mr. Cæsar Colclough, who had been long resident on the continent,) declared himself for the second time candidate for Wexford county, which he had represented in the previous parliament. The Colclough estates were large, the freeholders thereon numerous, and devoted to the interest of their patriotic leader, whose uncle, Mr. John Grogan, of Johnstown Castle (also a relative of mine), possessed of a very large fortune and extensive tenantry, had united with his nephew and other most respectable and independent gentlemen of that county, to liberate its representation from the trammels of certain noblemen who had for many years usurped its domination. Mr. Colclough was determined to put the pride, spirit, and patriotism of the county to proof; and therefore, in the progress of the business, proposed Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan as joint-candidate with himself, declaring that he was authorised by the independent freeholders of the county to say, that they should feel the greatest gratification in being represented by so distinguished an ornament to the name of Irishman.

Mr. Colclough and Mr. Sheridan were therefore nominated on the one hand; and Mr. Alcock, supported by the interest of the influenced electors, on the other.

Never yet was any poll conducted by more resolute, active, and zealous partisans; but it is lamentable to add that they were equally intemperate as zealous. The _ignis fatuus_ of _patriotism_ had caught the mass of the population; tenants no longer obeyed the dictates of their absent landlords nor the menaces of tyrannic agents: no man could count on the votes of his former vassals. The hustings was thronged with crowds of tenantry, constitutionally breaking away from their shackles, and voting according to their principles of free agency for Sheridan,—a man known to them only by the celebrity of his talents. The poll proceeded:—the independent party was advancing fast to success; and had the election continued, there is little doubt that Mr. Sheridan would have been a representative for Wexford county. At this crisis occurred one of the most unfortunate and melancholy events on Irish record, and by which the contest was terminated—as if the untoward destiny of Sheridan withered every thing with which he came in contact.

Several tenants of a person who had given his interest to Mr. Alcock absolutely refused to vote for that gentleman, declaring that, at every risk, they would support Colclough and “the great Sheridan!” Mr. Alcock’s partisans perverted the free agency of these men into seduction on the part of Mr. Colclough: hence a feeling decidedly hostile was excited; the fierce zeal and frenzy of election partisanship burst into a flame; and Mr. Colclough was required to decline such votes, or to receive them at his peril.

Of course he disregarded this outrageous threat, and open war ensued. One party lost sight of reason;—both, of humanity; and it was determined, that before the opening of next morning’s poll, the candidates should decide, by single combat, the contested question, and (of course) the election itself. With what indignation and horror must such a resolution, at once assailing law, good morals, and decency, be now regarded! and how will the feeling of surprise increase from its being passed over with impunity!

Early on the eventful morning many hundred people assembled to witness the affair; and it will scarcely be believed that no less than eleven or twelve _county magistrates_ stood by, passive spectators of the bloody scene which followed, without an effort, or apparently a wish, to stop the proceeding.

Both combatants were remarkably near-sighted; and Mr. Alcock determined on wearing glasses, which was resisted by the friends of Mr. Colclough, who would wear none.—The partisans of the former, however, persevered, and he did wear them. The ground at length was marked; the anxious crowd separated on either side, as their party feelings led them; but all seemed to feel a common sense of horror and repugnance. The unfeeling seconds handed to each principal a couple of pistols; and placing them about eight or nine steps asunder, withdrew, leaving two gentlemen of fortune and character—brother-candidates for the county—and former friends, nay, _intimate companions_,—standing in the centre of a field, without any _personal_ offence given or received, encouraged by false friends, and permitted by unworthy magistrates, to butcher each other as quickly and as effectually as their position and weapons would admit.

The sight was awful!—a dead silence and pause ensued: the great crowd stood in motionless suspense: the combatants presented: men scarcely breathed: the word was given: Mr. Alcock fired first, and his friend—his companion—one of the best men of Ireland, instantly fell forward, shot through the heart! he spoke not—but turning on one side, his heart’s blood gushed forth—his limbs quivered—he groaned, and expired. His pistol exploded after he was struck—of course without effect.

The bystanders looked almost petrified. The profound stillness continued for a moment, horror having seized the multitude, when, on the sudden, a loud and universal yell (the ancient practice of the Irish peasantry on the death of a chieftain) simultaneously burst out like a peal of thunder from every quarter of the field; a yell so savage and continuous—so like the tone of _revenge_,—that it would have appalled any stranger to the customs of the country. Alcock and his partisans immediately retreated; those of Colclough collected round his body; and their candidate (a few moments before in health, spirits, and vigour!) was mournfully borne back upon a plank to the town of his nativity, and carried lifeless through those very streets which had that morning been prepared to signalise his triumph.

The election-poll, of course, proceeded without further opposition:—the joint friends of Colclough and Sheridan, deprived of their support, and thunderstruck at the event, thought of nothing but lamentation; and in one hour Mr. Alcock was declared duly elected for Wexford county, solely through the death of his brother-candidate, whom he had himself that morning unjustly immolated.

A more wanton duel, a more unnecessary, cruel, and in all points illegal transaction, never occurred in the United Empire: yet, strange to say, of those eleven or twelve magistrates who actually stood by, as amateurs or partisans, in defiance of the law and of their duty,—not one was displaced or punished!—a precedent of impunity most discreditable to the high authorities of that day, dangerous to the peace of the country, and subversive of the first principles of free election. Judge of Sheridan’s feelings on receiving this intelligence! and judge of the correctness of his biographers, who have suppressed the incident altogether.

Nor was poor Colclough’s death the last act of the tragedy. His friends thought themselves called on to prosecute Mr. Alcock, who fled, but subsequently returned and surrendered for trial. I attended, as special counsel for the prosecution. Baron Smith tried the cause. The evidence was stronger than I have deemed it necessary to recite. The baron stated his opinion on the legal distinctions as applicable to duelling, and on that opinion the bar differed. It was not the wish of the prosecutors to do more than mark the transaction by a _conviction_ for _manslaughter_, which the law, under the circumstances, seemed to render imperative. However, the then politics of Wexford juries differed not unfrequently both from the laws of God and the statute book; and the verdict returned in this instance was, to the surprise of every one, a _general acquittal_!

But, alas! the acquitted duellist suffered more in mind than his victim had done in body. The horror of the scene, and the solemnity of the trial, combined to make a fatal inroad on his reason! He became melancholy; his understanding gradually declined; a dark gloom enveloped his entire intellect; and an excellent young man and perfect gentleman at length sank into irrecoverable imbecility. Goaded by the vicious frenzy of election partisans, he had slain his friend; and, haunted by reflection and sorrow, he ended his own days in personal restraint and mental ruin.

Two other duels were fought upon the same occasion, but with little injury and still less interest. Mr. Cæsar Colclough has since returned from the continent; and, on the strength of his late brother’s popularity, was elected member for County Wexford. He has not, however, followed up the high reputation of that brother; nor very satisfactorily fulfilled the expectations of his constituents.

But to this sanguinary and fatal duel there was yet another sad corollary. Miss Alcock, sister of the member, had been most deeply affected by the mournful catastrophe. She had known Colclough long and intimately; and being an amiable and sensitive young woman,—her brother’s absence, his trial, and his subsequent depression, kept the gloomy transaction alive in her mind: hence she also gradually wasted; and the death of her brother sinking deeper and deeper into a heart, all the sources of tranquillity whereof had been dried up,—_her_ reason wandered, at length fled, and she did not long survive the dreadful fate of her friend and of her brother.

A trivial anecdote will suffice to exhibit the general state of Wexford county, and of the aristocracy and magistracy, many of whom were a disgrace to their office, and completely filled up Mr. Grattan’s definition of a “regal rebel” by their arrogance, tyranny, oppression, and disaffection. By these men the peasantry were goaded into a belief that justice was banished, and so driven into the arms of the avowed rebels, who used every lure to enforce their previous delusion.

A handsome young woman, maid-servant to a Mrs. Lett, who was considered as a great _patriot_ (rebel) in Wexford, happened one summer’s evening to sit at her mistress’s window singing songs, but to certain airs that were not considered orthodox by the aristocracy.

The present Marquess of Ely, with the high sheriff and other gentlemen of the county, were retiring after their wine from the grand-jury, and heard this unfortunate young siren warbling at the window: but as the song sounded to their loyal ears of a rebellious tendency, it was thought advisable to demolish the fragile parts of Mrs. Lett’s house-front without delay; and, accordingly, my lord, the high sheriff, and their friends (to preserve the peace and protect the constitution from such traitorous maid-servants), forthwith commenced their laudable undertaking; and stones being the weapons nearest at hand, the windows and the warbling maid received a broadside, which was of the greatest utility to the glazier, and had well-nigh put fees into the pockets, not only of the surgeon, but of the sexton and coroner likewise.

However, on this occasion, justice was not so far off as the peasants had been persuaded: my lord, the high sheriff, and others, being indicted and tried, I had the honour of being his lordship’s counsel; and as our duty was to make “the worse appear the better _cause_,” I certainly did my utmost for the marquess:—but his lordship, conceiving my delicacy to the maid-servant rather too great, requested permission to ask her a few questions himself, which was granted.

“Now, girl,” said the marquess, “by the oath you have taken, did you not say you would _split my skull open_?”

“Why, then, by the virtue of my oath,” said the girl, turning to the judge, “it would not be _worth my while_ to split his skull open, my lord!”

“Ha! ha!” said the marquess, “now I have her!” (wisely supposing she made some allusion to a _reward_ for killing him:) “and _why_, girl, would it be not worth your while?”

“Because, my lord,” answered she, “if I had split your lordship’s skull open,—by virtue of my oath, I am sure and certain I should have found little or nothing inside of it!”

The laugh against the noble marquess was now too great to admit of his proceeding any further with his cross-examination: he was found guilty, and fined.

WEDDED LIFE.

Lord Clonmel, chief justice of the Irish Court of King’s Bench—His
character—Lady Tyrawly’s false charge against him—Consequent duel
between him and Lord Tyrawly—Eclaircissement—Lord Tyrawly and Miss
Wewitzer—Lord Clonmel’s hints “How to rule a wife”—Subsequent
conversation with his lordship at Sir John Tydd’s.

The first chief judge who favoured me with his intimacy was Lord Clonmel, chief justice of the King’s Bench. His character appears at full length in my “Historical Memoirs of Ireland,” vol. i. p. 38, and a curious but true character it is. I was introduced to his lordship’s notice through Sir John Tydd (the truest friend he had), and received from him many instances of attention; and he gave me, early in life, some of the very best practical maxims. As he was one of the celebrated _official_ “fire-eaters” (whom I shall hereafter mention), and fought several duels, it may be amusing to extract here, from the work in question, a few distinguishing traits of his lordship.—“Mr. Scott never omitted one favourable opportunity of serving himself. His skill was unrivalled, and his success proverbial. He was full of anecdotes, though not the most refined: these in private society he not only told, but _acted_; and when he perceived that he had made a very good exhibition, he immediately withdrew, that he might leave the most lively impression of his pleasantry behind him. His boldness was his first introduction—his policy, his ultimate preferment.—Courageous, vulgar, humorous, artificial, he knew the world well, and he profited by that knowledge:—he cultivated the powerful; he bullied the timid; he fought the brave; he flattered the vain; he duped the credulous; and he amused the convivial. He frequently, in his prosperity, acknowledged favours he had received when he was obscure, and _occasionally_ requited them. Half-liked, half-reprobated, he was too high to be despised, and too low to be respected. His language was coarse, and his principles arbitrary; but his passions were his slaves, and his cunning was his instrument. In public and in private he was the same character; and, though a most fortunate man and a successful courtier, he had scarcely a sincere friend or a _disinterested_ adherent.”—What regard I had for his lordship was literally so.

His duel with Lord Tyrawly was caused and attended by circumstances which combine to form a curious narrative:—Lady Tyrawly had an utter dislike for her husband (then the Honourable James Cuffe). They had no children, and she made various efforts to induce him to consent to a distinct and total separation. There being no substantial cause for such a measure, Mr. Cuffe looked upon it as ridiculous, and would not consent.—At length, the lady hit upon an excellent mode for carrying her wishes into effect, and ensuring a separate maintenance: but I have never heard of the precedent being followed.

Mr. Cuffe found her one day in tears, a thing not frequent with her ladyship, who had a good deal of the amazon about her. She sobbed—threw herself on her knees—went through the usual evolutions of a repentant female—and, at length, told her husband that she was unworthy of his future protection,—had been faithless to him, and was a lost and guilty woman.

I suppose there is a routine of contrition, explanation, rage, honour, &c. &c. which generally attends developments of this nature; and I take for granted that the same was duly performed by the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Cuffe. Suffice it to say, that the latter was put into a sedan-chair and ordered out of the house forthwith to private lodgings, until it was the will of her injured lord to send a deed of annuity for her support.

Mr. Cuffe next proceeded to summon a friend, and inform him that his wife had owned “that villain Scott,” the attorney-general, and the pretended friend of his family, to be her seducer!—that not his love, but his honour was so deeply concerned, as to render the death of one or the other necessary;—and, without further ceremony, a message was sent, for mortal combat, to the attorney-general, urging the lady’s confession, his own dishonourable breach of trust, and Mr. Cuffe’s determination to fight him.

Mr. Scott, well knowing that a _declaration_, or even an _oath_, of innocence would, by the world, be considered either as honourable perjury on his part, to save Mrs. Cuffe’s reputation, or as a mode of screening himself from her husband’s vengeance (and in no case be believed even by the good-natured part of society); made up his mind for the worst.

The husband and supposed gallant accordingly met: no explanation could be listened to: the ground was duly measured—the flints hammered—the parties bowed to each other (as was then usual), and exchanged shots; and each having heard the bullets humanely whiz past his skull, without indicating a desire of becoming more intimately acquainted therewith, Mr. Scott told his antagonist that he was totally mistaken, and gave his honour that he never had the slightest familiarity with the lady, who, he concluded, must have lost her reason.[54]

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Footnote 54:

A Mr. George Bathron, of Durrow, an apothecary, had, about 1783, been
accused of a similar misdemeanour with the wife of a brother volunteer
in the same town, but with more reason. He however got over it better:
he denied the fact plump; and the ensuing Sunday, after having
received the sacrament in church, swore that he never in his life had
“behaved _unlike_ a _gentleman_ by Mrs. Delany.” This completely
satisfied the husband; and the apothecary was considered a trustworthy
person—of high honour, moral tendency, and shamefully _calumniated_.

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There was no cause for denying credence to this; while, on the other hand, it was but too likely that Mr. Cuffe had been tricked by his lady wife. She was sure of a _separation_, for he had _turned her out_: and if he had fallen on the field of honour, she would have had a noble jointure;—so that she was _in utrumque parata_,—secure under every chance—death or Doctor Duigenan.

On his return, he sent her a most severe reprimand; and announced but a moderate annuity, which she instantly and haughtily refused, positively declaring that she _never had made any confession of guilt_! that the whole was a scheme of his own vicious jealousy, to get rid of her; and that she had only said, he might _just as well_ suspect the attorney-general, who had never said a _civil_ thing to her, as _any body else_! She dared him to _prove_ the least impropriety on her part; and yet he had cruelly turned her out of his house, and proclaimed his innocent wife to be a guilty woman.

Mr. Cuffe saw she had been too many for him every way!—he durst not give more publicity to the affair; and therefore agreed to allow her a very large annuity, whereon she lived a happy life, and died not many years since at Bath.

The _subsequent_ connexion of Lord Tyrawly had likewise a singular termination. Miss Wewitzer, sister to the late celebrated violinist of that name, soon filled Mrs. Cuffe’s vacant place; and by her my lord had many children—the eldest being the present Colonel Cuffe, member of Parliament for Mayo; a very good man, honourable and friendly. I never saw two persons live more happily together than Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer, whom he considered as his wife. She was unexceptionably correct, and he wholly attached to her. She had been remarkably pretty, and celebrated as _Rosetta_ (in Bickerstaff’s opera). I was intimate with Lord Tyrawly, and have entertained a great regard for Colonel Cuffe from his boyhood.

The death of Lady Tyrawly at length gave his lordship the long-expected opportunity of realising his promises and intentions, for the sake of his family; and Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer being regularly married, she became the _real_ Lady Tyrawly—whom she had so many years represented.

Now, here was a cohabitation of considerably more than twenty years, in happiness and tranquillity, followed up by an honourable and just arrangement, wherefrom it might be rationally supposed an increase of happiness would ensue. But no sooner did the parties become legally man and wife, than Madam Discord introduced herself! It is singular, but true, that (as if Nature originally intended every living thing to _remain_ totally free and independent) the moment any two animals, however fond before, are fastened together by a cord or chain they cannot break, they begin to quarrel without any reason, and tear each other, solely because they can’t get loose again.[55]

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Footnote 55:

Nobody has put this better than Pope, in the mouth of _Eloisa_—

“Not Cæsar’s empress would I deign to prove;—
No! make me _mistress_ to the man I _love_:
And if there be another name more free,
More fond, than _mistress_, make me _that_ to _thee_!”

I think what renders ladies quarrelsome after they are tied, who were
so sweet and conciliatory before, is, the natural and inherent spirit
of contradiction of which the fair sex are accused. This they are
privileged to exercise to its full extent during _courtship_; and the
_abrupt transfer_ of it immediately after the honey-moon might ruffle
the temper of an angel!

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So it was with my Lord and Lady T.; and every hour added fresh fuel to the flame. She had been Lady Tyrawly only in _remainder_ and _expectancy_; but _possession_ alters matters extremely in the humour of most people. At length (to continue my pretty simile) the chain became _red-hot_,—neither of them could bear it longer, and the whole affair ended in a voluntary and most uncomfortable _separation_! However, it was only for a short time: death, always fond of doing mischief in families, very soon brought them together again; and if such a thing can be conceived as possible in the other world, it is no bad conjecture, that at this very moment my Lord T., the two Ladies T., and Lord Clonmel, are, among a group of other ghosts, thinking what fools men are to give themselves so much uneasiness upon subjects which only pass like shadows, instead of turning their minds to what might be much more material—namely, how to get over their _sins_ when the _last assizes_ come round.

I recollect one of Lord Clonmel’s maxims was, “whatever must be done in the course of the week, always do it on _Monday morning_:” and in truth, whoever practises that rule, will find it in no slight degree convenient. I never did.

Immediately after I was married, I resided next door to Lord Clonmel, in Harcourt-street. He called on me most kindly, and took me to walk over his fine gardens and lawn; and was so humorous and entertaining, that his condescension (as I then felt it) quite delighted me; but I afterward found out that he made a point of discovering every young man likely to succeed in public life, and took the earliest moment possible of being _so civil_ as to ensure a friend, if not a _partisan_; and no man wanted the latter more than his lordship.

“Barrington,” said he to me, “you are married?”

“No doubt,” said I, laughingly, “as tight as any person on the face of the earth, my lord.”

“All women in the world,” rejoined his lordship, “are fond of having their own way.”

“I am firmly of your opinion, my lord,” said I.

“Now,” pursued he, “the manner in which all wives are spoiled, is by giving them their own way at first; for whatever you accustom them to at the beginning, they will expect _ever after_: so, mind me! I’ll tell you the secret of ruling a wife, if known in time:—never do _any_ thing _for peace-sake_: if you do, you’ll never have one hour’s tranquillity but by _concession_—mind that!”

“I firmly believe it,” exclaimed I.

“Well,” said he, “_practise_ it, Barrington!”

Some time after, I met his lordship at Lamberton, Queen’s county, the seat of Sir John Tydd. He related the above story with much humour, and asked me if I had taken his advice.—“No,” said I.

“No! why not?” inquired his lordship.

“Because,” replied I, “a _philosopher_ has an easier life of it than a _soldier_.”

I had the laugh against him, and the more particularly as his lordship had married a second wife, Miss Lawless (the present dowager); and I believe no husband in Ireland adhered less to his own maxim than did Lord Clonmel after that union. My own opinion on the subject ever was, that contradicting a woman never pays for the trouble of the operation: if she is a fool, it makes her _worse_; if a sensible woman, she does not require it; and if of an _epicene_ temper, _coaxing_ will do more in half an hour, than _bullyragging_ (a _vulgar_ but expressive Irish idiom) in a fortnight.

DUKE OF WELLINGTON AND MARQUESS OF LONDONDERRY.

My first acquaintance with the Duke of Wellington and the late Marquess
of Londonderry, at a dinner at my own house—Some memoirs and anecdotes
of the former as a public man—My close connexion with government—Lord
Clare’s animosity to me suspended—Extraordinary conference between
Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Cooke, and me, in August 1798—Singular
communication—Offers made to me for succession as solicitor-general—I
decline the terms proposed—Lord Castlereagh’s letter to me—Character
of Mr. Pelham, now Earl of Chichester.

My personal acquaintance with the Duke of Wellington originated accidentally, soon after I commenced public life; and so clearly shows the versatility of men, the fallibility of judgment, and the total uncertainty of all human prediction, that I cannot avoid mentioning it.

In 1793, when I was in high repute, most prosperous at the bar, living in the first ranks of society, a distinguished favourite at the vice-regal court, and designated as a candidate for the first offices of my profession, I occasionally gave large splendid dinners, according to the habit invariably adopted in those times by persons circumstanced like myself.—At one of those entertainments Major Hobart (Lord Buckinghamshire); Sir John Parnell; Isaac Corry; I think Lord Limerick; Sir John (afterward Lord) de Blacquiere; Lords Llandaff, Dillon, Yelverton; the Speaker, &c. &c.—in all, upward of twenty noblemen and commoners did me the honour of partaking my fare: to assist in preparing which Lord Clonmel sent me his two grand cooks. At that period I was not unentertaining; and a most cheerful party was predicted.—The House had sat late, and etiquette never permitted us to go to dinner (where the Speaker was a guest) until his arrival, unless he had specially desired us to do so.

The Speaker did not join us till nine o’clock, when Sir John Parnell brought with him, and introduced to me, Captain Wellesley and Mr. Stewart, two young members, who having remained in the House, he had insisted on their coming with him to my dinner, where he told them good cheer and a hearty welcome would be found; and in this he was not mistaken.

Captain Arthur Wellesley had, in 1790, been returned to Parliament for Trim, County Meath, a borough under the patronage of his brother, the Earl of Mornington.[56] He was then ruddy-faced and juvenile in appearance, and rather popular among the young men of his age and station. His address was not polished: he occasionally spoke in Parliament, but not successfully, and never on important subjects; and evinced no promise of that unparalleled celebrity and splendour he has since reached, and whereto intrepidity and decision, good luck and great military science, have justly combined to elevate him. As to his late _civil_ triumph, I will suspend giving my opinion, though I hold a strong one.

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Footnote 56:

I think he was opposed by the present Mr. Saurin, and Mr. Tod Jones
(who afterward sent a bullet through Sir Richard Musgrave’s abdomen).

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Lord Castlereagh was the son of Mr. Stewart, a country gentleman, generally accounted to be a very clever man, in the north of Ireland. He had been a professed and not very moderate _patriot_, and at one time carried his ideas of opposition exceedingly far,—becoming a leading member of the Reform and Liberal societies.[57]

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Footnote 57:

See the history of Belfast, and the northern clubs and volunteer
resolutions of that period—namely, 1779 or 1780. He and Mr. Joy, a
printer, drew them up conjointly.

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Lord Castlereagh began his career in the Irish Parliament, by a motion for a committee to inquire into the representation of the people, with the ulterior object of a reform in Parliament. He made a good speech, and had a majority in the House, which he certainly did not expect, and I am sure did not _wish for_. He was unequal and unwilling to push that point to further trial: the matter cooled in a few days; and after the next division, was deserted entirely. Mr. Stewart, however, after that speech, was considered as a very clever young man, and in all points well taught and tutored by his father, whose marriage with the Marquess of Camden’s sister was the remote cause of all his future successes:—how sadly terminated!

At the period to which I allude, I feel confident nobody could have predicted that one of those young gentlemen would become the most celebrated general of his era, and the other the most unfortunate minister of Europe. However, it is observable, that to the personal intimacy and reciprocal friendship of those two individuals, they mutually owed the extent of their respective elevation and celebrity:—Sir Arthur Wellesley never would have had the chief command in Spain but for the ministerial aid of Lord Castlereagh; and Lord Castlereagh never could have stood his ground as a minister, but for Lord Wellington’s successes.

At my house the evening passed amidst that glow of well-bred, witty, and cordial vinous conviviality, which was, I believe, peculiar to high society in Ireland.

From that night I became somewhat intimate with Captain Wellesley and Mr. Stewart; and perceived certain amiable qualities in both. Change of times, or the intoxication of prosperity, certainly tends either to diminish or increase some natural traits in every man’s character, or to neutralise qualities which had previously been prominent. Indeed, if Lord Wellington had continued until now the same frank, plain, open-hearted man, he certainly must have been better proof against those causes which usually excite a metamorphosis of human character than any one who ever preceded him. Still, if possible, he would have been a _greater_ man; at least, he would have better drawn the distinction between a _warrior_ and a _hero_—terms not altogether synonymous.

Many years subsequently to the dinner-party I have mentioned, after Sir Arthur had returned from India, I one day met Lord Castlereagh in the Strand, and a gentleman with him. His lordship stopped me, whereat I was rather surprised, as we had not met for some time: he spoke _very_ kindly, smiled, and asked if I had forgotten my old friend? It was Sir Arthur Wellesley whom I discovered in his companion; but looking so sallow and wan, and with every mark of what is called a worn-out man, that I was truly concerned at his appearance.—But he soon recovered his health and looks, and went as the Duke of Richmond’s secretary to Ireland; where he was in all material traits still Sir Arthur Wellesley—but it was Sir Arthur Wellesley judiciously improved. He had not forgotten his friends, nor did he forget himself. He told me that he had accepted the office of secretary only on the terms that it should not impede or interfere with his military pursuits; and what he said proved true, for he was soon sent, as second in command of the troops, with Lord Cathcart to Copenhagen, to break through the law of nations, and execute upon a Christian state and ancient ally the most distinguished piece of treachery that history records.

On Sir Arthur’s return he recommenced his duty of secretary; and during his residence in Ireland, in that capacity, I did not hear one complaint against any part of his conduct either as a public or private man. He was afterward appointed to command in Spain: an appointment which was, I then thought, expected by Sir John Doyle. I do not mean to infer the least disparagement to either the military or diplomatic talents of Sir John; but his politics, or at least those of his friends, were opposite, and he might have pursued a very different course to decide (for the _time being_) the fate of Europe.

A few days before Sir Arthur’s departure for Spain, I requested him and Lord Manners to spend a day with me, which they did. The company was not very large, but some of Sir Arthur’s military friends were of the party:—the late Sir Charles Asgill, the present General Meyrick, &c. &c. I never saw him more cheerful or happy. The bombardment of Copenhagen being by chance stated as a topic of remark, I did not join in its praise; but, on the other hand, muttered that I never did nor should approve of it.

“Damn it, Barrington!” said Sir Arthur, “why? what do you mean to say?”—“I say, Sir Arthur,” replied I, “that it was the very best devised, the very best executed, and the most just and necessary ‘_robbery_ and _murder_’ now on record!” He laughed, and we soon adjourned to the drawing-rooms, where Lady Barrington had a ball and supper as a _finish_ for the departing hero.

In 1815, having been shut up in Paris during the siege, I went out to Neuilly to pay a visit to the duke before our troops got into the city.—I had not seen him since the day above-mentioned; and he had intermediately much changed in his appearance, though seeming just as friendly.

I knew his Grace when Captain Wellesley—Sir Arthur Wellesley—Secretary Wellesley—Ambassador Wellesley—and Duke of Wellington. In the first stage of this career, I was, as a public man, more than his equal; in the last, nobody is so much. However, it is a fine reflection for the contemporaries of great people, that it will be “all the same a hundred years hence!” and heroes, diplomatists,[58] &c. must either become very good-tempered fellows when they meet in the Elysian fields, or—there must be a very strong _police_ to keep them in order.

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Footnote 58:

The following unpublished lines, by Miss M. Tylden, the most talented
young lady I ever met, depict the frivolity and short-lived nature of
human vanities more forcibly than a hundred sermons—if we calmly
reflect what a contemptible _animal_ is man!—

“The kingdoms of the world have pass’d away,
And its strong empires moulder’d into dust,
Swift as the changes of a poet’s dream;
And kings and heroes, and the mighty minds
Whose hopes circled eternity, and seized
The stars as their inheritance, and grew
Too big for mortal frames—until they sank
Into the narrow bounds of nature:—
These are the things which, even nameless now,
Are on the earth forgot—or, if retain’d,
Of power, of life, and motion all bereft!”

-----

Whilst the duke was at St. Denis, I was present in the French Chamber of Deputies when the question of _capitulation_ was discussed; and most undoubtedly Marshal Ney supported that measure upon the basis of a _general amnesty_. On any other, it would never have been listened to: the battle would have taken place; and the Duke of Wellington would have had to contest the most sanguinary and desperate engagement of his day with a numerous and well-appointed army, frantic with zeal to revenge their disgrace at Waterloo. This I _know_:—for I was (truly against the grain) kept more than twelve hours in the midst of that army at Vilette, two days before the capitulation. Of this more will be seen in the last volume. I cannot but remark, that if Ney had been pardoned, and the horses not sent to Venice, or the Louvre plundered, the _spirit_ of the capitulation—nay, the very _words_ of it—would have been more strictly adhered to.

I must be rightly understood respecting Lord Londonderry, to whom, individually, I never had the slightest objection. I always found him friendly, though cold; and fair, though ambiguous.—I never knew him break his word; and believe him to have been, as a private gentleman, unconnected with Parliament or official negotiations, perfectly honourable. But here my eulogy must close; for, with regard to public character, his lordship must, I fear, be pronounced corrupt. When determined on a point, nothing could stop him. In Ireland, his career was distinguished by public bribery and palpable misrepresentations:—of which assertion, had I not indisputable and ample proof, I would not hazard it.

Mr. Pelham (now Earl of Chichester) was secretary to Lord Camden when lord lieutenant. I had the good fortune and pleasure (for it was a great pleasure to me) to be on very friendly terms with this amiable and engaging gentleman, and have seldom met any public personage I liked so well—moderate, honourable, sufficiently firm and sufficiently spirited: I had a real gratification in attaching myself not only to his measures, but to his society. In all our intercourse (which ceased with his departure) I found him candid and just, and experienced at his hands several public acts of kindness and attention.

Mr. Pelham’s parliamentary talents were not of a splendid order. The people of Ireland never required _stars_ for ministers; but a fair and candid secretary was a great treat to them, and Mr. Pelham was making rapid way in public esteem (though no friend to emancipation). The last day I ever saw him in Ireland he and his brother-in-law, Lord Sheffield, did me the favour of dining with me in Merrion Square. I perceived he was uncommonly dull, and regretted the circumstance much: he obviously grew worse,—at length laid his head upon the table, and when he departed was extremely ill: next day he was in a violent fever, his life was long despaired of; he recovered with difficulty, and, on his recovery, returned to England. Mr. Stewart (by marriage the lord lieutenant’s nephew) was named as _locum tenens_ during Mr. Pelham’s absence, or (should he not return) until the appointment of another secretary. But he was soon discovered by his employers to be fit for _any_ business; and as it had been long in the secret contemplation of the British ministry to extinguish the Irish Parliament, either by fraud or force,—and Lord Camden being considered too inactive (perhaps too conscientious and honourable) to resort to either of those weapons, it was determined to send over an old servant-of-all-work, who had fought till he was beaten, and negotiated till he was outwitted. This person (Lord Cornwallis), with the assistance of his young secretary, would stop at nothing necessary to effect the purpose; and they could, between them, carry a measure which few other persons, at that period, durst have attempted.

These fragments are not intended as political episodes. The result of that coalition every body knows: I shall only state so much of the transaction as relates to my own individual concerns. I had an interview with Lord Castlereagh, some time after he came into office, at Mr. Cooke’s chambers. He told me he understood I expected to be the next solicitor-general, and had applied for the office. I answered, that I not only expected as much, but considered myself, under all circumstances, _entitled_ to that preferment. He and Mr. Cooke both said, “yes;” and recommended me to make “my _party good_ with Lord Clare,” who had expressed “no indisposition” to the appointment on a vacancy. Had I not been supposed of some use to the government, I do not doubt but Lord Clare would have preferred many other more subservient gentry of my profession. But he knew that although Lord Westmoreland, on leaving Ireland, had made no express stipulation, he had subsequently gone as far as he could with Lord Camden for my promotion. Lord Clare played me off cleverly, until, in the month of August 1799, I was sent for in private by the secretary, Edward Cooke, who had been a particularly confidential friend of mine for several years. Having first enjoined secrecy as to the subject of our conference, he told me that a measure of great import had been under consideration in the English cabinet, and might _possibly_ be acted on: and then proceeding to acquaint me that Lord Clare had made no objection to my promotion, he asked in so many words if I would support the “question of _a union_, IF it should be brought forward?” I was struck as if by a shot! I had no idea of such a thing being now seriously contemplated, although I had often heard of it as a measure suggested in 1763. My mind had never any doubts upon the degrading subject, all thoughts whereof had been considered as banished for ever by the _Volunteers_, and the Renunciation passed by the British legislature, in 1782. I therefore replied at once, “No, never!”—“You’ll think better of it, Barrington!” said he. “_Never!_” rejoined I: and the discussion was dropped; nor did I confide it to any save one individual, who differed with me very much, at least as to the mode of my refusal.

I was determined, however, to know how the matter really stood; and, without touching on the late conversation, desired to be apprised whether they preserved the intention of appointing me solicitor-general. I received no other answer than the following letter from Lord Castlereagh, without any explanation;—but it was enveloped in a very long one from Mr. Cooke, headed “strictly private;” and, therefore, of course, still remaining so, at least during my life. It may one day be considered a very remarkable public document.

September 7, 1799.

“My dear sir,

“I am directed by his Excellency, the Lord Lieutenant,
to assure you, that he would be glad to avail himself of any
proper opportunity of complying with your wishes; and that he
regrets much he is at present so particularly circumstanced with
respect to the office of solicitor-general, that he feels it
impossible to gratify your desire as to that appointment. I
should, myself, have been very happy had I been able to
communicate to you a more favourable result.

“Dear Sir, yours very sincerely,
“CASTLEREAGH.”

I have never had any thing more to do with the successive governments of Ireland,[59] and have used much forbearance in giving my opinion of Irish lord chancellors, except Mr. Ponsonby, whom nobody ever heard me praise as a _very great lawyer_, but whom every body has heard me term a _just judge_, an honest, friendly man, and an adequate chancellor.

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Footnote 59:

Lord Castlereagh’s letter to me put, in fact, a civil end to my dreams
of promotion; and I was neither sinister nor cunning enough to regain
any influence after the Union was effected.

-----

Of Lord Camden, I believe, there was no second opinion in the circle wherein I moved:—a better man could not be; but instead of governing, he was governed: and intimately acquainted as I was with every procedure and measure during his administration in Ireland, I do most fully acquit him, individually, of the outrageous, impolitic, and ill-judged measures which distinguished his rule. As to Lord Clare, he was despotic, and the greatest enemy Ireland ever had. His father had been a Roman Catholic, and intended for a priest, but changed his tenets, became a barrister of great and just celebrity, and left many children.

Lord Clare was _latterly_ my most inveterate enemy: the cause shall hereafter[60] be no secret;—it arose from a vicious littleness of mind scarcely credible, and proves to me that implacability of temper never exists without attendant faults; and although it may be deprecated by cringing, is seldom influenced by feelings of generosity.

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Footnote 60:

If this _cause_ involved no names but his lordship’s and my own, it
should appear in _these volumes_; but it is a much more comprehensive
subject, and I feel too delicate on the point at present to enlarge
further upon it.

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LORD NORBURY.

Quarrel between Lord Norbury and the author in the House of
Commons—Curran’s bon-mot—Dinner at Lord Redesdale’s, who attempts
being agreeable, but is annoyed by Lord Norbury (then Mr.
Toler)—Counsellor O’Farrell—Mr. (now Lord) Plunkett and Lord
Redesdale—Lord Norbury and young Burke—His lordship presides at Carlow
assizes in the character of _Hawthorn_.

Lord Norbury (then Mr. Toler) went circuit as _judge_ the first circuit I went as _barrister_. He continued many years my friend, as warmly as he possibly could be the friend of any one, (he had been a sporting companion of my uncle, Harry French,) and I thought he was in earnest. One evening, however, coming hot with the Tuscan grape from Lord Clare’s (at that time my proclaimed enemy), he attacked me with an after-dinner volubility, which hurt and roused me very much. I kept indifferent bounds myself: but he was generally so very good-tempered, that I really felt a repugnance to indulge him with as tart a reply as a stranger would have received, and simply observed, that “I should only just give him that character which developed itself by his versatility—namely, that _he had a hand for every man, and a heart for nobody_!” I did not say this in an incensed tone, though I fear the sarcasm has stuck to him from that day to this. He returned a _very_ warm answer, gave me a wink, and made his exit:—of course I followed. The serjeant-at-arms was instantly sent by the Speaker to pursue us with his attendants, and to bring both refractory members back to the House. Toler was caught by the skirts of his coat fastening in a door, and they laid hold of him just as the skirts were torn completely off. I was overtaken (while running away) in Nassau-street, and, as I resisted, was brought like a sack on a man’s shoulders, to the admiration of the mob, and thrown down in the body of the House. The Speaker told us we must give our honours forthwith that the matter should proceed no further:—Toler got up to defend himself; but as he then had no skirts to his coat, made a most ludicrous figure; and Curran put a finishing-stroke to the comicality of the scene, by gravely saying, that it was the most unparalleled insult ever offered to the House! as it appeared that one honourable member had _trimmed_ another honourable member’s _jacket_ within these walls, and nearly within view of the Speaker.

A general roar of laughter ensued. I gave my honour, as required, I think with more good-will than Toler; and would willingly have forgotten the affair altogether, which he apparently never did. I only hope that, when his memory declines, (which time cannot be very far off now,) our quarrel will be the first circumstance that slips it. If I could forget _any thing_, I should long ago have lost all recollection thereof.

Lord Norbury had more readiness of repartee than any man I ever knew who possessed neither classical wit nor genuine sentiment to make it valuable. But he had a fling at every thing; and, failing in one attempt, made another—sure of carrying his point before he relinquished his efforts. His extreme good-temper was a great advantage. The present Lord Redesdale was much (though unintentionally) annoyed by Lord Norbury, at one of the first dinners he gave (as lord chancellor of Ireland) to the judges and king’s counsel. Having heard that the members of the Irish bar (of whom he was then quite ignorant) were considered extremely witty, and being desirous, if possible, to adapt himself to their habits, his lordship had obviously got together some of his best bar-remarks (for of _wit_ he was totally guiltless, if not inapprehensive) to repeat to his company, as occasion might offer; and if he could not be humorous, determined at least to be entertaining.

The first of his lordship’s observations after dinner, was the telling us that he had been a Welsh judge, and had found great difficulty in pronouncing the double consonants which occur, as in the instance of _Lloyd_, in Welsh proper names. “After much trial,” continued his lordship, “I found that the difficulty was mastered by moving the tongue alternately from one dog-tooth to the other.”

Toler seemed quite delighted with this discovery; and requested to know his lordship’s dentist, as he had lost one of his dog-teeth, and would, before he went to North Wales, which he intended to do during the long vacation, get another in place of it. This went off flatly enough—no laugh being gained on either side.

Lord Redesdale’s next remark was,—that when he was a lad, cock-fighting was the fashion; and that both ladies and gentlemen went full-dressed to the cock-pit, the ladies being in hoops.

“I see now, my lord,” said Toler, “it was then that the term _cock-a-hoop_ was invented!”

A general laugh now burst forth, which rather discomposed the learned chancellor. He sat for awhile silent; until _skaiting_ became a subject of conversation, when his lordship rallied, and with an air of triumph said, that in his boyhood all danger was avoided; for, before they began to skait, they always put blown bladders under their arms; and so, if the ice happened to break, they were buoyant and safe.

“Ay, my lord;” said Toler, “that’s what we call _blatherum-skate_ in Ireland.”[61]

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Footnote 61:

An Irish vulgar idiom for “_nonsense_.”

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His lordship did not understand the sort of thing at all; and (though extremely courteous) seemed to wish us all at our respective homes. Having failed with Toler, in order to say a civil thing or two, he addressed himself to Mr. Garrat O’Farrell, a jolly barrister, who always carried a parcel of coarse national humour about with him; a broad, squat, ruddy-faced fellow, with a great aquiline nose and a humorous Irish eye. Independent in mind and property, he generally said whatever came uppermost.—“Mr. Garrat O’Farrell,” said the chancellor solemnly, “I believe your name and family are very respectable and numerous in County Wicklow. I think I was introduced to several of them during my late tour there.”

“Yes, my lord,” said O’Farrell, “we _were_ very numerous; but so many of us have been lately hanged for sheep-stealing, that the name is getting rather scarce in that county!”

This was quite conclusive: his lordship said no more; and (so far as respect for a new chancellor admitted) we got into our own line of conversation, without his assistance. His lordship, by degrees, began to understand some jokes a few minutes after they were uttered. An occasional smile discovered his enlightenment; and, at the breaking up, I really think his impression was, that we were a pleasant, though not very _comprehensible_ race, possessing at a dinner-table much more good-fellowship than special-pleading; and that he would have a good many of his old notions to get rid of before he could completely cotton to so dissimilar a body:—but he was extremely polite. Chief Justice Downs, and a few more of our high, cold sticklers for “decorum,” were quite uneasy at this skirmishing: yet I doubt if Lord Redesdale liked them at all the better before the end of the entertainment.

I never met a cold-blooded ostentatious man of office, whom I did not feel pleasure in mortifying: an affectation of _sang-froid_ is necessary neither to true dignity nor importance; on the contrary, it generally betrays the absence of both, and of many amiable qualities into the bargain.