Part 27

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

Footnote 77:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never heard him utter the word _obdurate_ afterward.

MR. NORCOT’S ATTEMPT AT SUICIDE.

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

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

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

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

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

“The flints, Thomas?”

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

“Bring them hither,” said Norcot.

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

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

“And _why should not I_?” said Thomas.

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

“Thunder and oons, master! why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANECDOTES OF IRISH JUDGES.

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

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

Footnote 78:

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

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

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

Footnote 79:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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