Part 21

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.

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.

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.

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]

Footnote 61:

An Irish vulgar idiom for “_nonsense_.”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footnote 62:

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

HENRY GRATTAN.

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

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

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

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

“Heavens!” said I, “what r——l?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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