Part 23

The trial proceeded. I was then rather young at the bar, and determined, for my own sake, to make an interesting and affecting speech for my client;—and having no doubt of Knaresborough’s acquittal, I certainly overcharged my statement, and added some _facts_ solely from invention. My surprise, then, may be estimated, when I heard Miss Barton swear positively to _every syllable_ of my emblazonment! I should now have found myself most painfully circumstanced, but that I had no doubt she _must_ be altogether deprived of credit by his counsel; and, in fact, she _was_ quite shaken on her cross-examination. The prisoner’s advocate smiled at her and at us; and said, “the woman’s credit was so clearly overthrown, that there could be no doubt of Knaresborough’s innocence of the charge of _violence_; and any protracted defence on so clear a subject would be useless.”

The court seemed to acquiesce. I considered all was over, and left the place as the jury retired. In about an hour, however, I received an account that Knaresborough had been found _guilty_, and sent back to gaol under sentence of death!—I was thunderstruck, and without delay wrote to the chief secretary, in Dublin, begging him instantly to represent to the lord lieutenant the real facts, and that I, as counsel for the prosecution, knew the total _falsity_ of a great part of her evidence:—execution was in consequence respited. So soon as I could return to town, I waited on Major Hobart and the lord lieutenant, stated precisely the particulars I have here given, and my satisfaction (even from my own brief) that the girl was perjured. They referred me to Lord Chancellor Clare, whose answer I wrote down, and never shall forget: “That may be all very true, Barrington! but he is a rascal, and if he does not deserve to be hanged for _this_, he does for a _former_ affair,[66] right well!” I told him it was quite necessary for me to publish the whole matter, in my own justification. He then took from his bureau a small parcel of papers, and requested me to read them: they proved to be copies of affidavits and evidence on a former accusation, (from which Knaresborough had escaped by lenity,) for snapping a pistol at the father of a girl he had seduced.—Lord Clare, however, recommended his sentence to be changed to transportation: but this was to the convict worse than death, and he enclosed to me a petition which he had sent to government, declining the proposed commutation, and insisting on being forthwith executed, pursuant to his first sentence! Notwithstanding, he was, in fine, actually transported. He had contrived to secure in different ways 10,000_l._, and took a large sum with him to Botany Bay. I had heard no more of him for several years,—when I was astonished one day by being accosted in the streets of Dublin by this identical man, altered only by time and in the colour of his hair, which had turned quite gray. He was well dressed, had a large cockade in his hat, and did not at all court secrecy. He told me that the governor had allowed him to come away privately: that he had gone through many entertaining and some dismal adventures in Africa, and in America—whence he last came; and he added, that as government were then busy raising troops, he had sent in a memorial, proposing to raise a regiment for a distant service, solely at his own expense. “I have,” said he, “saved sufficient money for this purpose, though my brother has got possession of a great part of my fortune.” In fact, he memorialised and teased the government (who were surprised at his temerity, yet unwilling to meddle with him) until at length they had him arrested, and required to show his written authority from the governor of New South Wales for returning from transportation,—which being unable to do, he was committed to Newgate, to await the governor’s reply.

Footnote 66:

The former affair alluded to by Lord Clare was certainly of a most unpardonable description.

Here his firmness and eccentricity never forsook him; he sent in repeated petitions to the ministry, requesting to be hanged, and told me he would give any gentleman 500_l._ who had sufficient interest to get him put to death without delay! An unsatisfactory answer arrived from New South Wales:—but the government could not, under the circumstances, execute him for his return;—and liberate him Lord Clare _would_ not: his confinement therefore was, of course, indefinitely continued. During its course he purchased a lottery ticket, which turned out a prize of 2000_l._; and soon after, a second brought him 500_l._ He lived well; but having no society, was determined to provide himself a companion at all events.

At this juncture the Earl of Aldborough became his next-door neighbour.—My lady (the best wife in the world) did not desert her husband; and, as all women of rank entertain what they call a “young person” to attend on them;—that is, (speaking generally) a girl handsomer than the mistress, neater in her dress, as good in her address—and more _cautious_ as to her character;—Lady Aldborough brought such a one with her to the prison as her dresser and tea-maker. But this “young person,” considering (as Swift says) that “service is no inheritance,” and that she had no money of her own, and hearing that Fitzpatrick Knaresborough possessed great plenty of that necessary article, some way or other the metallic tractors brought them acquainted on the stairs. To run away with him, she had only to trip across a lobby: so she actually broke the sabbath by taking that journey one Sunday morning, and left my lord and my lady to finish the morning service, and wonder at the attractions of Newgate, which could set a-wandering the virtue of their “_young person_,” whom all the temptations, luxuries, and lovers of London and Dublin had never been able to lead astray from the path of rectitude! My lady was surprised how “Anna” could possibly connect herself with a convict for such a _shocking_ crime;—but his lordship, who knew the world better, said _that_ was the very reason why Anna admired him. However, the whole business in all its ramifications terminated pretty fortunately. My lord had his full revenge on Lord Clare, and got great credit for his firmness and gallantry; Knaresborough was at length turned out of Newgate when the government were tired of keeping him in; while the “young person” produced sundry other young persons of her own in prison, and was amply provided for. The only set-off to this comedy of “All’s Well that Ends Well” was the melancholy fate of poor Miss Barton, who married, was soon deserted by her husband, after his beating her unmercifully, and died in misery.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

Sketch of his character—Personal description—Lodgings at Carlow—Mr. Curran and Mr. Godwin—Scenes in the “Cannon” coffee-house—_Liberality_ of mine host—Miss H * * * in heroics—Precipitate retreat—Lord Clancarty—Mr. Curran’s notion of his own prowess—The disqualifications of a wig—Lord and Lady Carleton—Curran in 1812—An attorney turned cobbler—Curran’s audience of the present king of France—Strictures on his biographers.

There have been few public men whose characters have afforded a more ample field for comment than that of Mr. Curran, and there are _very_ few who have been more miserably handled by their biographers. Young men, who fancied they knew him because they were latterly in his society, in fact knew him not at all. None but the intimates of his earlier and brighter days, and, even among such, those only who had mixed with him in general as well as professional society, could possibly estimate the inconsistent qualities of that celebrated orator. There was such a mingling of greatness and littleness, of sublimity and meanness, in his thoughts and language, that cursory observers (confused amidst his versatility and brilliance) quitted Curran’s society without understanding any thing relating to him beyond his buoyant spirits and playful wit. But toward the close of his days this splendour dissipated, and dark and gloomy tints appeared too conspicuously, poor fellow! for his posthumous reputation. He felt his decline pressing quick upon him, and gradually sank into listless apathy.

In 1790 he was in the zenith of his glory; but even so early as 1796, his talents and popularity seemed to me to have commenced an obvious declension. By seceding from parliament, he evacuated the field of battle and that commanding eminence from whence he had so proudly repulsed all his enemies. His talents, for a while survived; but his habits of life became contracted, his energies were paralysed, his mind rambled, he began to _prose_,—and, after his appointment to the Rolls, the world seemed to be closing fast upon him.

My intimacy with Curran was long and close. I knew every turn of his mind and every point of his capacity. He was not fitted to pursue the subtleties of detail;—but his imagination was wide-ranging and infinite, his fancy boundless, his wit indefatigable. There was scarce any species of talent to which he did not possess some pretension. He was gifted by nature with the first faculties of an advocate and of a dramatist; and the lesser but ingenious accomplishment of personification (without mimicry) was equally familiar to him. In the circles of society, where he appeared every body’s superior, nobody ever seemed jealous of that superiority:—it soared too high above the pretensions of others.

Curran’s person was mean and decrepid: very slight, very shapeless—with nothing of the gentleman about it; on the contrary, displaying spindle limbs, a shambling gait, one hand imperfect, and a face yellow, furrowed, rather flat, and thoroughly ordinary. Yet his features were the reverse of disagreeable: there was something so indescribably dramatic in his eye and the play of his eyebrow, that his visage seemed the index of his mind, and his humour the slave of his will. I never was so happy in the company of any man as in Curran’s for many years. His _errors_ he made _interesting_—his very _foibles_ were amusing.—He had no vein for poetry; yet fancying himself a bard, he fabricated pretty verses: he certainly was no musician; but conceiving himself to be one, played pleasantly on the fiddle. Nature had denied him a voice; but he thought he could sing; and in the rich mould of his capabilities, the desire here also engendered the capacity, and his Irish ballads were excessively entertaining.

It is a curious, but a just remark, that every slow, _crawling_ reptile is in the highest degree disgusting; while an insect, ten times uglier, if it be sprightly and seem bent upon enjoyment, excites no shudder. It is so with the human race: had Curran been a dull, slothful, torpid mannerist, all his talents would not have redeemed his personal defects.—But his rapid movements,—his fire,—his sparkling eye,—the fine and varied intonations of his voice,—these conspired to give energy to every word he uttered, and new life to every company he mixed with; and I have known ladies who, after an hour’s conversation, actually considered Curran a _beauty_, and preferred his society to that of the finest fellows present. There is, however, it must be admitted, a good deal in the circumstance of a man being _celebrated_, as regards the patronage of females.—Nothing flatters a woman so much as being noticed by a man of talent: she considers it as a public eulogium on his own understanding: her looking-glass had told her she was _pretty_; but she was not so certain of her _intellectual_ attractions.

Curran had a perfect _horror_ of fleas: nor was this very extraordinary, since those vermin seemed to show him peculiar hostility. If they infested a house, my friend said, that “they always flocked to his bed-chamber, when they heard he was to sleep there!” I recollect his being dreadfully annoyed in this way at Carlow; and, on making his complaint in the morning to the woman of the house, “By Heavens! madam,” cried he, “they were in such numbers, and seized upon my carcase with so much ferocity, that if they had been _unanimous_, and all pulled one way, they must have dragged me out of bed entirely!”

I never saw Curran’s opinion of himself so much disconcerted as by Mr. Godwin, whom he had brought, at the Carlow assizes, to dine with Mr. Byrne, a friend of ours, in whose cause he and I had been specially employed as counsel. Curran, undoubtedly, was not so happy as usual in his speech on this occasion—but he thought he was. Nevertheless, we succeeded; and Curran, in great spirits, was very anxious to coax a public compliment from Mr. Godwin, as an eminent literary man, teasing him (half-jokingly) for his opinion of his speech. Godwin fought shy for a considerable time; at length, Curran put the question home to him, and it could no longer be shifted. “Now what did you think of my speech to evidence, to-day, Godwin?—Eh?”

“Since you _will_ have my opinion,” said Godwin, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair with much _sang-froid_, “I really never did hear any thing so bad as your _prose_—except your _poetry_, my dear Curran!”

Curran and I were in the habit, for several years, of meeting, by appointment, in London, during the long vacation, and spending a month there together, in the enjoyment of the public amusements;—but we were neither extravagant nor dissipated. We had both some propensities in common, and a never-failing amusement was derived from drawing out and remarking upon eccentric characters. Curran played on such people as he would on an instrument, and produced whatever tone he thought proper from them. He always kept a good _fiddle_ in London, which he occasionally brought out under his coat to dining-houses where we were not known. It produced innumerable adventures; for he played and sang in the drollest manner.

We were in the habit of frequenting the Cannon coffee-house, Charing Cross, (kept by the uncle of Mr. Roberts, proprietor of the Royal Hotel, Calais,) where we had a box every day at the end of the room; and as Curran was free from professional cares, his universal language was that of wit, while my high spirits never failed to prompt my performance of _Jackall_ to the _Lion_. Two young gentlemen of the Irish bar were frequently of our party in 1796, and contributed to keep up the flow of wit, which, on Curran’s part, was well-nigh miraculous.

Gradually the ear and attention of the company were caught. Nobody knew us, and, as if carelessly, the guests flocked round our box to listen. We perceived them, and increased our flights accordingly. Involuntarily, they joined in the laugh, and the more so when they saw it gave no offence. Day after day the number of our auditors increased,—until the room, at five o’clock, was thronged to hear “the Irishmen.” One or two days we went elsewhere; and, on returning to “the Cannon,” our host begged to speak a word with me at the bar. “Sir,” said he, “I never had such a set of _pleasant_ gentlemen in my house, and I hope you have received no offence.” I replied, “Quite the contrary!”—“Why, sir,” rejoined he, “as you did not come the last few days, the company fell off. Now, sir, I hope you and the other gentleman will excuse me if I remark that you will find an excellent dish of fish, and a roast turkey or joint, (with any wine you please,) on your table, every day at five o’clock, while you stay in town; and, I must beg to add, _no charge_, gentlemen!”

I reported to Curran, and we agreed to see it out. The landlord was as good as his word:—the room was filled: we coined stories to tell each other; the lookers-on laughed almost to convulsions; and for some time we literally feasted. Having had our humour out, we desired a bill, which the landlord positively refused: however, we computed for ourselves, and sent him a 10_l._ note enclosed in a letter, desiring him to give the balance to his waiters.

I do not think I was ever so amused in my life, as at that curious occurrence. One Irish templar alone recognised us, and we made him promise secrecy as to our names: I never saw him after:—indeed, I believe he never returned.

An anecdote of a very different nature terminated one of our trips to London:—I had long known that there had existed what Curran called “a refined friendship” between him and a Miss Hughes, at Spa. She was afterward a friend of Holman, the player, and finally married Major Scott, an associate of Mr. Hastings. Curran asked me one day, if I was too squeamish to go and sup with a former friend of his, who had pressed him to come that evening to supper, and permitted him to bring a companion. He told me who it was, and I was quite pleased at the idea of knowing a person of whom I had heard so much in Ireland. She had in fact been a lady of very considerable estate there.

We were received with the greatest cordiality and politeness by Miss Hughes:—another young lady and two children were in the room. Curran was most humorous and enlivening, and every thing foreboded a cheerful _petit soupé_, when the lady told Curran she wished to speak a word to him in the next room. They accordingly withdrew. I was in conversation with the governess and children, when I heard a noise like the report of a small pistol, and Curran immediately rushed into the apartment—Miss Hughes marching _majestically_ after him. He took no notice of me, but snatching up his hat, darted down stairs and into the street with the utmost expedition. I really conceived that she had fired at him; and feeling dubious as to my own probable fate, (without a word passing,) pounced upon my _chapeau_, and made after my friend in no small haste. I could not, however, open the street-door, and therefore gave myself up for a murdered man, particularly on the bell ringing violently: but the revulsion of my feelings was quite heavenly when I heard Miss Hughes’s voice over the banisters calling to her maid to “open the street-door for the gentleman.” I lost no time in making good my retreat; but did not see Curran again till next morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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