Chapter IX: Part 9

The condemned Lutheran was, of course, all this time gazing with straining eyeballs upon the forest of pikes underneath. His blood (as if to witness the curiosity) rushed down to his head; and he naturally fell into a state of delirium. All he could recollect or relate afterward was, that “as his eyes met the pikes just under him, and heard the rebels call on the captain to ‘_let go!_’ the influx of blood to his brain operated as, he should imagine, apoplexy might;”—and the captain perceiving his prisoner to be senseless, and actually intending, if possible, to save him, cried out to the men below that “by J—s the parson was ‘stone dead’ of the _fright_, and was quite _kilt_!”

“Hurrah!” cried the wattle-boys.

“Hurrah!” repeated Captain Murphy: “The devil any use in dirtying your pikes with a dead parson! Better not _spoil his clothes_, boys! his shirt alone is worth a crown, if it’s worth a farthing.”

Some of the wattlers bespoke one garment—some another:—and these were thrown out of the window by Murphy, who left the poor parson in his “birth-day suit,” with five times as much blood in his head as it was anatomically entitled to. The attendants in the room all thought he was absolutely dead, and scampered down to assist in the _scramble_. But Murphy, as he departed, whispered to the owner of the house, “The parson has life enough in him, yet! you don’t think I intended to kill my neighbour, if I could help it, do you? But if ever he _shows_ again, or any of ye tell a single word of this matter, by J—s every living sowl shall be burnt into black cinders!”

The _defunct_ was then covered with a quilt, carried up to a back cockloft, and attended there by the two old women who, in fact, alone occupied the house. He remained safe and sound till the town was retaken by General Lake, who immediately hanged several disaffected gentlemen, cut off their heads by martial law, and therewith ornamented the entrance of the court-house, as heretofore described. Parson Owen was now fully liberated, with the only difference of having got a lank body, confused brains, a celestial squint, and an illegitimate sort of St. Vitus’s dance, commonly called a _muscular contortion_, which, by occasional twitches and jerks, imparted both to his features and limbs considerable _variety_.

However, by the extraordinary caprice of Dame Fortune, what the parson considered the most dreadful incident of his life turned out, in one respect, the most fortunate one. Mr. Brown, the father of his charmer, was moved to pity by his sufferings and escape, and still further conciliated by the _twist_ in his optic nerves, which gave the good clergyman the appearance, whenever he played the orator in his reading-desk or pulpit, of looking steadfastly and devoutly up to heaven. Hence he acquired the reputation of being marvellously increased in godliness; and Miss Brown, with her debentures, was at length committed to his “holy keeping.” I believe, however, the worthy man did not long survive to enjoy his wished-for prosperity. St. Vitus grew too familiar; and poor Owen became, successively, puny, sickly, and imbecile: the idea of the pikes never quitted his sensorium; and after a brief union, he left his spouse a dashing young widow, to look out for another helpmate, which I understand she was not long in providing.

Sudden fright and horror, or even agitating news, have often the most extraordinary effect on the human frame, exciting a variety of disorders, and sometimes even death. I have myself seen numerous examples of the overwhelming influence of _surprise_. Not long since, a near relative of mine, a clergyman of ample fortune—a pattern of benevolence and hospitality—healthy, comely, happy, and adored by his parishioners—had been driven into some trifling lawsuit. He had conceived a strange opinion, that a clergyman would be _disgraced_ by any cause he contested being given _against_ him. With this notion, he attached an _ideal_ importance to success; and the thing altogether rendered him anxious and uneasy. The day of decision at the assizes of Carlow came on: he drove in his gig to the court-house door, quite certain of the _justice_ of his cause, and confident, therefore, of its issue;—when the attorney who acted for his opponent, coming out of court, abruptly told him that the decision was adverse to him. The extreme suddenness of this unexpected news, like an electric shock, paralysed his frame, extinguished all his faculties—and, in a word, he instantaneously fell _dead_! The event was even if possible more lamentable, as the intelligence was communicated in sport. The cause had been actually decided in my relation’s favour.

REBEL PORTRAITS.

Tendency of the imagination to _embody_ character—Its frequent
errors—Exemplified in the personal traits of several of the rebel
chiefs of Ireland—The Bretons of La Vendée—Intrepidity of their
leaders—The battle of Ross—Gallantry of a boy twelve years
old—Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey—Description of his person and
character—His habit of joking—Dangerous puns—His bewilderment as rebel
generalissimo—His capture and behaviour at execution—Portrait,
physical and mental, of Captain Keogh—Remarkable suicide of his
brother, and his own execution—Mr. Grogan, of Johnstown Castle,
described—His case, sentence, and execution—Unmerited fate of Sir
Edward Crosby, Bart.

When we read or hear of public and distinguished characters, whether good or bad, we are naturally disposed to draw in our mind a figure or face for each, correspondent to the actions which rendered the individual conspicuous. We are inclined, for instance, to paint in our imagination a rebel chieftain as an athletic powerful personage, with a commanding presence;—an authoritative voice to controul; and impetuous bravery to lead on a tumultuous army of undisciplined insurgents. Were this always the case, insurrections would, perhaps, stand a better chance of being successful.[39]

-----

Footnote 39:

Such _was_ the case with the Bretons in La Vendée. An officer of rank
in the French army at that period, commanding a regiment of chasseur
republicans, told me very lately, that above 15,000 regular troops
(his regiment among the rest) were surprised at noon-day, defeated and
dispersed, and their artillery and baggage taken, by a _smaller_
number of totally undisciplined Vendeans, with few fire-arms, but led
on by officers selected for powerful strength and fiery enthusiasm.
Their contempt for life, and impetuosity in close combat, were
irresistible; the latter, indeed, was always a characteristic with
them, and the gallantry of their chiefs was quite unparalleled.

-----

In the Irish Rebellion of 1798, the chief leaders had scarcely any of these attributes. _Numerically_, the rebels were sufficient, and more than sufficient, to effect all their objects; but they had no idea of discipline, and little of subordination. Their intrepidity was great, and their perseverance in the midst of fire and slaughter truly astonishing. Yet on every occasion it was obviously the _cause_ and not the _leaders_ that spurred them into action: when Irishmen _are_ well officered they never yield.[40]

-----

Footnote 40:

The battle of Ross, in June, 1798, lasted ten hours. The rebel
_officers_ did nothing, the _men_ every thing. While the
commander-in-chief, Counsellor Bagenal Harvey, was standing on a hill
nearly a mile distant, a boy twelve years old (Lett of Wexford town)
called on the insurgents to follow him. He put himself at the head of
ten thousand men—approached the town, and stormed it. The town took
fire; the rebels got liquor; and they were killed in sleep and
drunkenness. Nothing could have saved our troops had the rebels been
well officered: General Johnston, who commanded the royalists,
deserved great praise for his judgment on that critical occasion.

-----

A spirit of uncompromising fortitude or enthusiastic gallantry generally spreads over the countenance some characteristic trait. Undisciplined followers are fascinated by ferocious bravery: they rush blindly any where, after an intrepid leader. But a languid eye, unbraced features, and unsteady movements, palpably betray the absence of that intellectual energy, and contempt of personal danger, which are indispensable qualities for a rebel chief.

To reflect on the great number of respectable and unfortunate gentlemen who lost their lives by the hands of the common executioner in consequence of that insurrection, is particularly sad;—indeed, as melancholy as any thing connected with the long misrule and consequent wretched state of brave and sensitive Ireland—which is _now_, at the termination of seven hundred years, in a state of more alarming and powerful disquietude than at any period since its first connexion with England.

I had been, as stated in a former volume, in long habits of friendship and intercourse with most of the leading chiefs of that rebellion. Their features and manners rise, as it were in a vision, before my face: indeed, after thirty long years of factious struggle and agitation, when nothing remains of Ireland’s pride and independence but the memory, every circumstance occasioning and attending that period, and the subsequent _revolution_ of 1800, remains in freshest colours in the recollection of a man who _once_ prided himself on being born an Irishman.

I made allusion, in a previous part of this work, to a dinner of which I partook in April, 1798, at Bargay Castle, County Wexford, the seat of Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey,—who, I may as well repeat here, was a month afterward general-in-chief over an army of more than thirty thousand men (mostly of his own county), brave and enthusiastic; and, in two months more, died by the hands of the hangman. He had been my school and class-fellow, and from nine years of age we held uninterrupted intercourse: he was a most singular example of mixed and opposite qualities; and of all human beings, I should least have predicted for him such a course, or such a catastrophe.

Harvey was son of one of the six clerks of chancery, who having amassed a very considerable fortune, purchased the estate and castle of Bargay.

Beauchamp Bagenal, his eldest son, was called to the Irish bar, and succeeded to his father’s estates. It was said that he was nearly related by blood to that most extraordinary of all the country gentlemen of Ireland, Beauchamp Bagenal, of Dunlickry, whose splendour and eccentricities were the admiration of the continent while he was making the grand tour (then reserved as part of the education of the very highest circles). This relationship was the subject of much merriment after a duel which Harvey’s reputed kinsman provoked my friend to fight with him, in order to have the satisfaction of ascertaining, “whether or no the lad had metal.”[41]

-----

Footnote 41:

Mr. Bagenal provoked Harvey to challenge him. They met. Harvey fired,
and missed. “D—n you, you young rascal,” cried Bagenal, “do you know
that you had like to kill your _god-father_? Go back to Dunlickry, you
dog, and have a good breakfast got ready for us. I only wanted to see
if you were _stout_.”

-----

Harvey’s person was extremely unimposing. He was about five feet four inches in height; and that ancient enemy of all beauty, the small-pox, had shown him no mercy, every feature being sadly crimped thereby. His sharp peaked chin never approached toward a contact with his cravat, but left a thin scraggy throat to give an impoverished hungry cast to the whole contour, by no means adapted to the mien and port of a “commander of the forces.” His scanty hair generally hung in straight flakes, and did not even pretend to be an ornament to his visage; his eye was quick but unmeaning; his figure thin and ill put together; his limbs short, slight, and wabbling; his address cheerful, but tremulous. On the whole, a more unprepossessing or unmartial-like person was never moulded by capricious nature.

Yet Harvey was a very good-tempered friendly man, and a hearty companion. In common life he was extremely well conducted, and in the society of the bar often amusing, and never out of humour.

He was the greatest punster of his profession, and piqued himself on that qualification, in which he often succeeded admirably.[42] He had, in short, that sort of partial popularity with his bar contemporaries as rendered them always glad to have him in their society; but it was seldom any one inquired what had become of him when he was out of it. He had an ample store of individual courage; feared not single combat, and fought several duels intrepidly, though I do not think he ever _provoked_ one. He shot Sir Harding Giffard, late Chief Justice of Ceylon, and obtained a very droll name through that achievement, which never forsook him during his lifetime.

-----

Footnote 42:

I cannot omit introducing here one of his puns, because he ran a great
risk of being _shot_ for making it. A gentleman of the bar, married to
a lady who had lost all her front teeth, and squinted so curiously
that she appeared nearly blind, happened to be speaking of another
lady who had run away from her husband. “Well,” said Harvey, “you have
some _comfort_ as to _your_ wife.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said the barrister.

“I mean that if once you should lose Mrs. ——, you will never be able
to _i_-_dent_-ify her.”

If Mr. —— had cared a farthing for his wife, it would have been
impossible to reconcile this joke to him.

The above was an inferior pun, but it was to the _point_, and created
great merriment.

-----

Harvey was a person of the best fortune in his quarter of the county; of a Protestant family; and, being charitable and benevolent to his tenantry, was much beloved by them. Nobody in fact could dislike him: though he was flippant, he did not want sense; and presented an excellent example of those contradictory qualities so often discoverable in the same individual. He was considered by the heads of the United Irishmen to be well adapted—as a man of fortune and local influence in the most disaffected portion of their strongest county—to forward their objects: and he suffered his vanity so far to overcome his judgment, as, without the slightest experience, to assume the command of a great army—for which purpose there were few men in Ireland so utterly unfit.

In his martial office, his head became totally bewildered; the sphere of action was too great—the object struggled for, too comprehensive. Nor did even his _personal_ courage follow him to the field. His bravery, as against a single man, was neutralised in a tumult; and a mind naturally intrepid became bewildered, puzzled, and impotent. Amidst the roar of cannon, and the hurly-burly of the tumultuous and sanguinary battle of Ross, his presence of mind wholly forsook him, and he lost the day by want of tact and absence of spirit. His men fought hand to hand in the streets of Ross with the regular troops, of whom they slew a considerable number, including the Earl of Mountjoy; nor did they at last retire until they had not a single officer left to continue the engagement or lead them on to a renewed attack—which in all probability would have been effectual. Never did human beings show more decided bravery than the Irish peasantry in that bloody engagement. Thrice the town was theirs, and was finally lost by their inebriety and want of proper officers. Had Harvey captured New Ross, all Munster would have risen in his cause; and then indeed no royalist could have anticipated without dread the consequences. Officers and arms would have made the whole country inevitably theirs. When Wexford was retaken, Harvey concealed himself on an island, but was discovered, brought to that town, and without much ceremony hanged next day upon the bridge, toward the erection of which he had largely subscribed.

I could not but feel extreme regret at the sad fate which befell my old friend and school-fellow, who did not meet his destiny quite so firmly as his original manly bearing had inclined people to expect:—poor fellow! he idly strove by entreaty to avert, or at least retard it; and its infliction was aggravated by every species of indignity. In every thing except his politics, Harvey’s character was unimpeachable.

I never knew two persons much more dissimilar than were the commander-in-chief of the insurgents and the rebel governor of Wexford, Captain Keogh. The latter was a retired captain of the British service, who had fought in America, and, like many others, had there received a lesson on _civil liberty_ which never escaped his memory. He was married to an aunt of Lady Barrington; and, for many years, when I went the circuit, I lived at his house, and had conceived the greatest friendship for him. He was a very clever man. His housekeeping was characterised by neatness, regularity, and cheerfulness. Every thing was good of its kind; and in that plentiful country, even luxuries were abundant. Calm, determined, moderate, and gentlemanly, Captain Keogh combined good sense with firmness and spirit. But, most unfortunately, ill-treatment sustained from Lord Chancellor Clare perverted half his good qualities, and metamorphosed him into a partizan, which was far from being his natural tendency.

He had a fine soldier-like person, above the middle size; his countenance was excellent; his features regular and engaging; his hair, rather scanty, receded from his forehead; his eyes were penetrating and expressive; and his complexion exhibited that partial ruddiness which we so frequently see in fine men approaching threescore. He was appointed rebel governor of Wexford, but among those savages soon lost his popularity; and had the insurgents continued much longer masters of the place, he would surely have been assassinated. He did what he durst on the side of humanity, and had supposed that his orders would be obeyed: but he was deceived; blood, and blood in torrents, was the object of _both_ parties during that horrid summer. On the surrender of the town, Keogh was immediately convicted under martial law. He pleaded for himself; and I learn that on that occasion every body was affected. He knew his situation to be irretrievable, and his life forfeit; and he conducted himself at his execution with the utmost firmness, as became a gentleman and a soldier. He was hanged and beheaded on the bridge of which he also was a proprietor; and his head, as mentioned in a former volume (Vol. i.), was exhibited on a spike over the court-house door.

A singular circumstance occurred in Keogh’s house while the rebels were in possession of Wexford. His brother, a retired major in the British army, had also served in America, and lived with the captain in Wexford, but was a most enthusiastic royalist. Upon the rebels taking the place, he endeavoured to dissuade his brother from accepting the office of governor, but failing in the attempt, he retired to his own room and immediately blew his brains out!

The next of my friends and connexions who suffered by the hands of the executioner, was Mr. Cornelius Grogan of Johnstown Castle, a gentleman of large fortune, and great local interest and connexion. He had been twice high-sheriff and representative in Parliament for the county. He resided three miles from Wexford at his castle, where he had a deer-park of one thousand acres of good ground, besides a fine demesne. He lived as a quiet, though hospitable country gentleman. At this unfortunate period he had passed his seventieth year, and was such a martyr to the gout that his hands were wrapped up in flannel; and half carried, half hobbling upon crutches, he proceeded to the place of execution.

Mr. Grogan was in person short and dark-complexioned. His countenance, however, was not disagreeable, and he had in every respect the address and manners of a man of rank. His two brothers commanded yeomanry corps. One of them was killed at the head of his corps (the Castletown cavalry) at the battle of Arklaw; the other was wounded at the head of _his_ troop (the Healtford cavalry) during Major Maxwell’s retreat from Wexford.

The form of a trial was thought necessary by General Lake for a gentleman of so much importance in his county. His case was afterward brought before Parliament, and argued for three successive days and nearly nights. His _crime_ consisted in having been surrounded by a rebel army, which placed him under the surveillance of numerous ruffians. They forced him one day into the town on horseback;—a rebel of the appropriate name of Savage always attending him with a blunderbuss, and orders to shoot him if he refused their commands. They one day nominated him a _commissary_, knowing that his numerous tenantry would be more willing in consequence to supply them. He used no weapon of any sort;—indeed, was too feeble even to _hold_ one. A lady of the name of Seagriff gave evidence that her family were in want of food, and that she got Mr. Grogan to give her an _order_ for some bread, which order was obeyed by the insurgents. She procured some loaves, and supplied her children; and for that bread (which saved a family from starvation) Mr. Grogan was, on the lady’s evidence, sentenced to die as a felon—and actually hanged, when already almost lifeless from pain, imprisonment, age, and brutal treatment! The court-martial which tried him was not sworn, and only mustered seven in number. _His_ witness was shot while on the way to give evidence of his innocence; and while General Lake was making merry with his staff, one of the first gentlemen in the county (in every point his superior) was done to death almost before his windows!

From my intimate knowledge of Mr. Grogan for several years, I can venture to assert most unequivocally (and it is but justice to his memory) that, though a person of independent mind and conduct as well as fortune, and an opposition member of parliament, he was no more a _rebel_ than his brothers, who signalised themselves in battle as _loyalists_; and the survivor of whom was _rewarded_ by a posthumous bill of attainder against the unfortunate gentleman in question, by virtue of which estates of many thousands per annum were confiscated to the king. (The survivor’s admitted _loyal_ brother had been killed in battle only a few days before the other was executed.) This attainder was one of the most flagitious acts ever promoted by any government:—but after ten thousand pounds costs to crown officers, &c. had been extracted from the property, the estates were restored. I spent the summer of 1799 at Johnstown Castle, where I derived much private information as to the most interesting events of that unfortunate era.

It is, of course, most painful to me to recollect those persons whose lives were taken—some fairly—some, as I think, unfairly—at a time when military law had no restraint, and enormities were daily committed through it not much inferior to those practised by the rebels.

Sir Edward Crosby, a baronet with whom I was intimately acquainted, and who also lived tranquilly, as a country gentleman, upon a moderate fortune, near Carlow, was another person who always struck me to have been _murdered_ by martial law. There was not even a rational _pretence_ for _his_ execution. His trial, with all its attending documents, has been published, and his innocence, in fact, made manifest. The president of the martial court was one Major Dennis, who some time after quitted the service—I shall not mention why. The sentence on Sir Edward was confirmed by Sir Charles Asgill, I must suppose through gross misrepresentation, as Sir Charles had himself known enough about _hanging_ (though personally innocent) in America, to have rendered him more merciful, or at least more cautious in executing the first baronet of Ireland.

The entire innocence of Sir Edward Crosby has since, as I just now mentioned, been acknowledged by all parties. His manners were mild and well-bred: he was tall and genteel in appearance; and upward of fifty years of age. He had a wife who loved him; and was every way a happy man till he was borne to execution without the slightest cause. He was the elder brother of my old college friend, Balloon Crosby, whom I have heretofore mentioned in relating my _rencontre_ with Mr. Daly. (See Vol. ii.) He did not die with the courage of Keogh, but hoped for mercy to the last minute, relying on the interference of his old friend Judge Downes, who, however, proved but a broken reed.

REMINISCENCES OF WIT.

Wit distinguished from ribaldry—Chief Baron Yelverton and Mr.
Curran—Chief Justice Clonmell—Lord Norbury’s comprehensive powers—Sir
Hercules Langreish, and his digressions in claret-drinking—Gervoise
Parker Bushe, Chief Baron Burgh, &c.—Peculiar traits of Irish
convivial society in the author’s day—Jeremiah Keller—Lord Clare’s
funeral—A scanty fee—The Pope and Pretender—Counsellor Norcott’s
talent of mimickry—Ballinlaw ferry—Cæsar Colclough, of Duffry Hall,
and Julius Cæsar.

There is no intellectual faculty so difficult to define, or of which there are so many degrees and gradations, as _wit_. Humour may be termed a sort of _table d’hôte_, whereat wit and ribaldry sometimes mingle. Certain eminent countrymen of mine possessed these various conversational qualities in great perfection, and often called them into action at the same sitting. Among them, Mr. Curran and Chief Baron Yelverton were most conspicuous; but the flow of their _bonhomie_ was subject to many contingencies. It is worthy notice, that all the Irish judges of those days who could conjure up a single joke, affected _wit_. Lord Clonmell, chief justice, was but clumsy at repartee, though an efficient humourist. He seldom rose above _anecdotes_, but these he _acted_ whilst he told them. He had the peculiar advantage of knowing mankind well, and suiting his speech to the ears of his company. Lord Norbury had witticisms, puns, _jeux-d’esprit_—in short, jokes of all kinds, constantly at hand. His impromptus were sometimes excellent, but occasionally failed;—he made, however, more _hits_ than any one of his contemporaries. Nobody, it is true, minded much what he said:—if it was good, they laughed heartily; if bad, it was only a _Norbury_;—and so, by an indefatigable practice of _squibbing_, it is not wonderful that, during a life of eighty years, he should have uttered many _good things_—though, oddly enough, few of them are preserved.

Lord Norbury sang extremely well.—On my first circuit as counsel, in 1787, he went as judge, and I have often heard him warble “Black-eyed Susan” and “Admiral Benbow,” as well as parts in divers glees and catches, most agreeably.—Requiescat in pace!

Sir Hercules Langreish, a commissioner of revenue, and one of the most popular _courtiers_ of our society, had an abundance of slow, kind-hearted, though methodistically pronounced, repartee. (A living friend of mine in high rank has much more wit than Sir Hercules; but there is less philanthropy about it). I have heretofore mentioned his _retort courteous_ to Mr. Dundas, and will now give another specimen:—He was surprised one evening at his house in Stephen’s Green, by Sir John Parnell, Duigenan, and myself, who went to him on an immaterial matter of revenue business. We found him in his study alone, poring over the national accounts, with two claret bottles empty before him and a third bottle on the wane; it was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the butler, according to general orders when gentlemen came in, brought a bottle of claret to each of us. “Why,” said Parnell, “Sir Heck, you have emptied _two bottles_ already.” “True,” said Sir Hercules. “And had you nobody to help you?” “_O yes_, I had that bottle of _port_ there, and I assure you he afforded me very great assistance!”

Gervoise Parker Bushe could boast of wit enough for a member of parliament, and more than enough for a commissioner of the revenue. An eminent relative of his, now living, possesses the finest specimen I know at present of the smooth, classical species.

I never knew two distinguished individuals approach each other so nearly in many respects as the late Chief Baron Hussy Burgh and the personage who now presides over the first law court of Ireland. In some points, it is true, they differed:—the former was proud, the latter affable. The eloquence of the former was more highly polished, more classical and effective; that of the latter, more simple, more familiar, yet decided. When very young, I was fascinated by the eloquence of the _silver-tongued_ orator (as he was then called), and sought every possible opportunity of hearing him both at the bar and in the House of Commons. His was the purest declamation I have ever listened to; and when he made an instrument of his wit, it was pointed and acute. He was a miscellaneous poet, and wrote epigrams (several upon Lord Aldborough), which were extremely severe, but at the same time extremely humorous.

It would be almost impossible to enumerate the wits and humourists of Ireland in my early days. Wit was then regularly _cultivated_ as an accomplishment, and was, in a greater or less degree, to be found in every society. Those whom nature had not blessed with that faculty (if a blessing it is) still did their very best—as a foreigner sports his broken English.

The convivial circles of the higher orders of Irish society, in fact, down to the year 1800, in point of wit, pleasantry, good temper, and friendly feeling, were pre-eminent; while the plentiful luxuries of the table, and rich furniture of the wine-cellar, were never surpassed, if equalled, among the gentry of any country. But every thing is now changed; that class of society is no more; neither men nor manners are the same; and even the looking back at those times affords a man who participated in their pleasures higher gratification than do the actual enjoyments of the passing era.

People may say this change is in myself: perhaps so: yet I think that if it were possible for an old man still to preserve unimpaired all the sensations of youth, he would, were he a gentleman, be of my way of thinking. As for those of my contemporaries who survive, and who lived in the same circles with myself, I have no doubt they are unanimously of my opinion. I had very lately an opportunity of seeing this powerfully exemplified by a noble lord at my house. Good fortune had attended him throughout life; always respected and beloved, he had at length become wealthy. When we talked over the days we had spent in our own country, his eyes filled, and he confessed to me his bitter repentance as to _the Union_.

The members of the Irish bar were then collectively the best home-educated persons in Ireland, the elder sons of respectable families being almost uniformly called to that profession. Among them, nevertheless, were some of humbler origin. Jeremiah Keller was such;—but his talent sufficed to elevate him. He had the rare faculty of dressing up the _severest_ satire in the garb of pleasantry—a faculty, by the bye, which makes no friends, and often deepens and fixes animosity.

Keller was a good man, generally liked, and popular with a considerable portion of his profession. But though not rich, he occasionally exercised an independence of mind and manners which gave great distaste to the pride and arrogance of some of the leading authorities. Lord Clare could not endure him, and never missed an opportunity of showing or affecting to show his contempt for Jerry.

Lord Clare having died _of the Union_ and the _Duke of Bedford_, it was proposed by his led captains and partizans, that the bar, in a body, should attend his funeral procession. But as his Lordship had made so many inveterate foes at the bar, by taking pains to prove himself _their_ foe, it was thought necessary to _canvass_ the profession individually, and ascertain who among them would _object_ to attend. Very few did;—not that they cherished any personal respect for Lord Clare, but wished to compliment the remains of the first Irish chancellor. As Keller was known to be obstinate as well as virulent, it was held desirable to conciliate him if possible—though they anticipated the certainty of a direct refusal.

The deputation accordingly called on him: “You know, my dear fellow,” said Arthur Chichester M‘Courtney, who had been deputed as spokesman (beating about the bush), “that Lord Clare is to be buried to-morrow?”

“’Tis generally the last thing done with dead chancellors,” said Keller coolly.

“He’ll be buried in St. Peter’s,” said the spokesman.

“Then he’s going to a friend of the family,” said Keller. “His father was a papist.”[43]

-----

Footnote 43:

Old Counsellor Fitzgibbon, Lord Clare’s father, was born a Roman
Catholic, and educated for a priest. His good sense, however, opened
his eyes to his own intellectual abilities; and he determined to get,
if possible, to the bar—that sure source of promotion for reasoning
talent. But when or where (if ever) he renounced the Romish church, I
am ignorant. He acquired great and just eminence as a barrister, and
made a large fortune. Lord Clare was born his second son. Mrs.
Jeffries (his sister) I knew well, and I cannot pass her by here
without saying, that whatever faults she had, her female correctness
was unquestioned; and throughout my life I have never met a
kinder-hearted being than Mrs. Jeffries, or a fairer though a decided
enemy. Old Mr. Fitzgibbon loved to make money, and in his day it was
not the habit for lawyers to spend it. They used to tell a story of
him respecting a certain client who brought his own brief and fee,
that he might personally apologise for the smallness of the latter.
Fitzgibbon, on receiving the fee, looked rather discontented. “I
assure you, Counsellor,” said the client (mournfully), “I am ashamed
of its smallness; but in fact it is all I have in the world.” “Oh!
then,” said Fitzgibbon, “you can do no more:—as it’s ‘all you have in
the world,’—why—hem!—I must—_take it!_”

-----

This created a laugh disconcerting to the deputation;—however, for fear of worse, the grand question was then put. “My dear Keller,” said the spokesman, “the bar mean to go in procession; have you any objection to attend Lord Clare’s funeral?”

“None at all,” said Keller, “none at all! I shall certainly attend his _funeral_ with the _greatest pleasure imaginable_!”

Examples of Keller’s dry species of wit in fact daily occurred; it was always pungent, and generally well-timed. In the year 1798 flourished Sir Judkin Fitzgerald, Bart., a barrister whose loyal cruelties in the county of Tipperary were made the subject of a _post facto_ indemnity bill by Lord Castlereagh, to save him from punishment. Among other pastimes, he caused cats-o’-nine-tails to be soaked in _brine_, that the peasantry and every body else at whom he durst have a fling might be better cut, and remember it the longer. Bragging to Keller of his numerous ultra-loyal achievements, this man said, “You must own, Keller, at least, that I preserved the county of Tipperary.”

“Ay, and you _pickled_ it into the bargain!” said Keller: “you promise to make so good a body confectioner, that I dare say the lord-lieutenant will hire you;” and in fact Sir Judkin was soon afterward put in office at the castle.

The unfortunate Counsellor Norcott, heretofore mentioned in these sketches, was a fat, full-faced, portly-looking person. He had a smirking countenance, and a swaggering air; was an excellent _bon vivant_, a remarkably good mimic, and affected to be witty.

Speaking of the Catholics in the hall of the Four Courts, Keller seemed to insinuate that Norcott was favourable to their emancipation.

“What!” said Norcott, with a great show of pomposity—“what! Pray, Keller, do you see any thing that smacks of the _Pope_ about me?”

“I don’t know,” replied Keller; “but at all events there is a great deal of the _Pretender_, and I always understood them to travel in company.”

This was a kind of caustic wit which was not much cultivated in the higher convivial societies of that day, the members whereof used a more cordial species. But such sallies were always _repeated_ with great glee when they did not affect the person who repeated them.

Norcott’s mimickry was complete. This is a disagreeable and dangerous, because generally an _offensive_ faculty. The foibles, absurdities, or personal defects of mankind are thus caricatured, and the nearer perfection the mimickry, the more annoying to the mimicked. Done in a man’s presence, it amounts to a personal insult; in his absence, it is dramatic backbiting,—a bad quality in every point of view to cultivate, and such a weapon of ill-nature as every body should assist in blunting.

In a company where the late Lord Chief Baron Avonmore was a guest, Norcott was called on to show his imitative powers. He did so with great effect, taking off particularly well the peculiarities of the judges; and when he had finished, Lord Avonmore said, with point, but good-humour, “Upon my word, Norcott, as you so ably exposed the absurdities of _eleven_ of the judges, I think you did not act fairly by us in not giving also the _twelfth_ of them” (his lordship’s self).—Norcott did not utter a word more during the evening.

It is very singular, that a man with such a surplus of wit as Curran, never could write a good epigram—nor, with such an emporium of language, compose a pamphlet or essay that would pay for the printing; while a very eminent living friend of mine, high in the world—though not Curran’s equal in either qualities—has written some of the most agreeable and classic _jeux d’esprits_, of the most witty and humorous papers, and most effective pamphlets, that have issued from the pen of any member of his profession during my time. I had collected as many as I could of this gentleman’s productions and sayings (several printed and a few in manuscript); but, unfortunately, the whole was lost in a trunk of mine, (with a great number of my books and private papers and memoranda,) in 1812. I can scarce attempt to recollect any of them, save one or two, which may give some idea, but nothing more, of the agreeable playfulness of this gentleman’s fancy. They have been long recorded by the Irish bar; and some of the English bar, who are not at present celebrated for their own impromptus or witticisms, and are too _wise_ and _steady_ to _understand_ those of Ireland (unless in print and after due consideration), may be amused by reading and unriddling an Irish epigram, sent into the world by an English bookseller.[44]

-----

Footnote 44:

An English gentleman once said to me very seriously, that he always
preferred a London edition of an Irish book, as he thought, somehow or
other, it helped to _take out the brogue_.

-----

A placard having been posted in the courts of law in Dublin by a bookseller for the sale of _Bibles_, the gentleman I allude to wrote instantly under it with his pencil—

How clear is the case,
He’s mistaken the place,
His books of devotion to sell:
He should learn, once for all,
That he’ll never get call
For the sale of his _Bibles_ in _hell_.

Had the above _jeu d’esprit_ been the impromptu of a beaten client, he would have got great credit for it; and in truth, I think, after a year or two of litigation in a court of justice, most clients would freely subscribe their names to the concluding epithet.

Another _jeu d’esprit_ I remember, and so no doubt do all the bar of my standing who have any recollection left,—of whom, however, there is, I fancy, no great number.

There is a very broad and boisterous ferry between the counties of Wicklow and Wexford, called Ballinlaw, which the Leinster bar, on circuit, were obliged to cross in a bad boat. At times the wind was extremely violent between the hills, the waters high, and the passage dangerous;—yet the _briefs_ were at the other side; and many a nervous barrister, who on a simple journey would have rode a high-trotting horse fifty miles round-about rather than cross Ballinlaw when the waves were in an angry humour, yet, being sure that there was a golden mine, and a phalanx of attorneys brandishing their white briefs on the opposite shore—commending himself to Divine Providence, and flinging his saddle-bags into the boat—has stepped in after them; and if he had any prayers or curses by heart, now and then pronounced a fragment of such in rotation as were most familiar to him, on launching into an element which he never drank and had a rooted aversion to be upset in.

The curious colloquy of a boatman, on one of those boisterous passages, with Counsellor Cæsar Colclough, once amused such of the passengers as had not the fear of death before their eyes.

Cæsar Colclough of Duffry Hall, a very eccentric, quiet character, not overwise, (he was afterward Chief Justice of Newfoundland,) was in the boat during a storm. Getting nervous, he could not restrain his piety, and began to lisp out, “O Lord!—O Lord!” breathing an ardent prayer that he might once more see his own house, Duffry Hall, in safety, and taste a sweet barn-door fowl or duck, of which he had fine breeds.

“Arrah! Counsellor,” said the boatman, “don’t be going on praying _that side_, if you plase; sure it’s the _other lad_ you ought to be praying to.”

“What _lad_ do you mean?” said Colclough with alarm.

“What lad! why, Counsellor, the old people always say, that the _devil_ takes care of his _own_; and if you don’t vex him by praying the _other way_, I really think, Counsellor, we have a pretty _safe_ cargo aboard at this present passage.”

The friend I alluded to, whose wit and pencil were always ready, immediately placed Cæsar in a much more classical point of view. Though he made him a downright idolater, yet he put him on a level with a mighty hero, or emperor—writing upon the back of a letter thus:

While meaner souls the tempest kept in awe,
Intrepid Colclough, crossing Ballinlaw,
Cried to the sailors (shivering in their rags)
You carry _Cæsar_ and his _saddle-bags_!

Little did Julius Cæsar foresee before the birth of Christ that the first man at the Irish bar would, near two thousand years afterward, call to mind his exploits in Gaul on the waves of Ballinlaw, in the roaring of a hurricane. Should I meet him hereafter, I shall certainly tell him the anecdote.

COUNSELLOR LYSIGHT.

Edward Lysight, Esq., barrister-at-law—His peculiar talents—A song of
his contrasted with one of Moore’s on the same subject—_Ounagh_ and
_Mary_—Pastoral poetry—“The Devil in the Lantern”—A love story—“We’re
a’ _noddin_”—Sketch of Mr. Solomon Salmon and his daughter—Mr.
Lysight’s nuptials with the latter—Sociality at Somers’ Town—A morning
call—All is not gold that glitters—Death of the counsellor and his
lady.

Among the eccentric characters formerly abounding at the Irish bar, was one whose species of talent is nearly extinct, but whose singularities are still recollected by such of his professional contemporaries as have had the good fortune to survive him.

Edward Lysight, a gentleman by birth, was left, as to fortune, little else than his brains and his pedigree. The latter, however, was of no sort of use to him, and he seldom employed the former to any lucrative purpose. He considered law as his _trade_, and conviviality (to the cultivation whereof no man could apply more sedulously) as his _profession_. Full of point and repartee, every humourist and _bon vivant_ was his patron. He had a full proportion of animal courage; and even the fire-eaters of Tipperary never courted his animosity. Songs, epigrams, and lampoons, which from other pens would have terminated in mortal combat, being considered inherent in _his_ nature, were universally tolerated.

Some of Lysight’s sonnets had great merit, and many of his national stanzas were singularly characteristic. His “Sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green” is admirably and truly descriptive of the low Irish character, and never was that class so well depicted in so few words: but, to my taste, his sketch of a May morning is not to be exceeded in that cheerful colouring and natural simplicity which constitute the very essence and spirit of genuine pastoral. The beginning of the copy of verses called “Ounagh” offers an illustration of this; and it is much to be lamented that, with strange inconsistency, the man did not write another line of it adapted for publication. The first verse is, however, in my mind, worthy of being recorded, and I give it as a sample either of my bad or good taste. All I am _sure_ of is, that _I_ admire it.

’Twas on a fine May morning,
When violets were springing O,
Dew-drops the fields adorning,
The birds melodious singing O:
The green trees
Each soft breeze
Was gently waving up and down:
The primrose
That sweet blows
Adorned Nature’s verdant gown:
The purling rill
Stole down the hill,
And softly murmur’d thro’ the grove,
This was the time Ounagh stole out, to meet her barefoot love.[45]

-----

Footnote 45:

Pastoral poetry, whether classic, amatory, or merely rural, owes its
chief beauty to _simplicity_. Far-fetched points and fantastic
versification destroy its generic attribute; and their use reminds one
of the fashion of _harmonising_ the popular melodies of a country, in
order that young ladies may screech them with more complicated
execution.

Thus, I prefer, upon the whole, my deceased friend Lysight’s words
written to an old tune, to those of my celebrated living friend, Mr.
Thomas Moore; and think the _Ounagh_ of the one likely to be quite as
attractive a girl as the _Mary_ of the other, notwithstanding all the
finery wherewith the mention of the latter is invested. But our
readers shall judge for themselves. We have given the commencement of
Mr. Lysight’s version: here followeth that of Mr. Moore’s.

The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now with “lustre meek”
Illumin’d all the pale flowers,
Like hope that lights the mourner’s cheek.
I said (while
The moon’s smile
Play’d o’er a stream in dimpling bliss)
The moon looks
On many brooks—
The brook can see no moon but this.
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks on thee,
While, Oh! I feel there is but one—
One Mary in the world for me!—

Had not my talented friend garnished the above ditty with a note,
admitting that he had pilfered his _Irish_ Melody from an
_Englishman’s_ brains (Sir William Jones’s), I should have passed over
so extravagant an attempt to _manufacture simplicity_. I therefore
hope my friend will in future either confide in his own supreme
talents, or not be so candid as to spoil his song by his sincerity.
“It is the devil (said Skirmish) to desert; but it’s a d—d deal worse
to _own_ it!”

I think Dean Swift’s sample of Love Songs (though written near a
century ago) has formed an admirable model for a number of modern
sonnets; it should be much esteemed, since it is copied by so many of
our minstrels.

LOVE SONG BY DEAN SWIFT.

Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart:
I a slave in thy dominions—
_Nature must give way to art_, &c. &c.

-----

Lysight was, perhaps, not a poet in the strict acceptation of the term;—but he wrote a great number of miscellaneous verses—some of them, in general estimation, excellent; some delicate, some gross. I scarce ever saw two of these productions of the same metre, and very few were of the same character. Several of the best poetical trifles in M‘Nally’s “Sherwood Forest” were penned by Lysight.

Having no fixed politics, or in truth _decided_ principles respecting any thing, he was one day a patriot, the next a courtier, and wrote squibs both _for_ government and _against_ it. The stanzas relatively commencing,

Green were the fields that our forefathers dwelt on, &c.

Where the loud cannons rattle, to battle we’ll go, &c.

and

Some few years ago, though now she says no, &c.

were three of the best of his _patriotic_ effusions; they were certainly very exciting, and he sang them with great effect. He ended his literary career by a periodical paper in 1800, written principally against me, and called “The Lantern,” for which and similar squibs, he received four hundred pounds from Lord Castlereagh. I sincerely wished him joy of the acquisition, and told him “if he found me a good chopping-block, he was heartily welcome to hack away as long as he could get any thing by his butchery.” He shook me heartily by the hand, swore I was a “d—d good fellow,” and the next day took me at my word by lampooning me very sufficingly in a copy of verses entitled “The Devil in the Lantern!” But I loved abuse, when it was incurred for opposing the Union; and we never had a moment’s coolness upon that or any other subject. Indeed, I really regarded him.

He attempted to practise at the English bar; but after a short time, told me he found he had not law enough for the King’s Bench, was not dull enough for the Court of Chancery, and that before he could make way at the Old Bailey he must shoot Garrow, which would be extremely disagreeable to him. He therefore recurred to the periodicals; and though an indifferent prose writer, wielded his goose-quill with no small success. He showed me a _tariff_ of his pieces in verse: it was a most pleasant document, and I greatly regret I did not keep a copy of it: he burned it, he told me, to light his candle with. So indifferent was he of the main chance throughout life, that he never adhered long to any pursuit after he found it was really likely to be productive.

In the year 1785, when I was at Temple, he called on me one morning at the Grecian Coffee-house, where I then lodged, and said, with much seeming importance—

“Barrington, put on your hat, and come along with me this moment. I want to show you a lady who has fallen in love with me.”

“In love with _you_, Ned?” said I.

“Ay, to insanity!” replied he.

“It must indeed be to _insanity_.”

“Oh!” resumed he, gaily, “she is, I assure you, only considering what death she shall inflict on herself if I do not marry her. Now, you know, I am as poor as a rat, though a _gentleman_, and her father is as rich as Crœsus, though a _blackguard_: so we shall be well matched. The blood and the fat duly mixed, as Hogarth says, makes a right sort of pudding. So the thing is settled, and I’ll have the twelve tribes of Israel at my beck in the course of Monday morning.”

I thought he was distracted, and raving; but, however, immediately set out with him upon this singular expedition; and on our way to the Strand, where _the papa_ resided, he disclosed to me all the circumstances of his amour.

“Barrington,” said he, “the lady herself is not, to be sure, the most _palatable_ morsel one might see in a circle of females; yet she is obviously of the _human_ species; has the usual features in her face (such as they are), four fingers and a thumb on each hand, and two distinct feet with a proper number (I suppose) of toes upon each,—and what more need I expect, seeing she has plenty of the _shiners_?”

“True,” said I: “as for beauty, those English girls, who _are_ handsome, are too frolicksome: she’ll stick the closer to you, because she has none.”

“And what _advantage_ will that be?” muttered Lysight, with a half-suppressed imprecation. “Her father pretends,” continued he, “to be a _Christian_, and affects to keep a shop in the Strand, under the name of ‘_Salmon_, watchmaker:’ but in reality he is a d—d Jew, and only pretends to be a Christian that he may transact affairs for certain Israelites of the city, who give him the devil’s own rate of commission!—I hope to be a _partner_ ere long!”

“Suppose he receives _stolen goods_, Ned?” said I. “You’d cut but a queer figure at the _tail of a cart_ with a cat-o’-nine-tails flourished over you.”

“Father of Israel!” exclaimed Lysight, already half a Jew, “you mistake the matter totally. No, no! the maid-servant, whom I bribed with the price of my last squib in the Chronicle, told me every thing about Solomon Salmon—his dealings, his daughter, and his great iron chest with eleven locks to it: but as to _goods_, he never has fifty pounds’ worth of trinkets or watches in his shop—only a few in the window, to _look_ like trade. He deals in the lending and borrowing way only—all _cash_ transactions, depend on it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Ned,” said I, “how did you introduce yourself into the family of a Hebrew?”