Sir John Stuart Hamilton—Sir Richard Musgrave—Sir Edward Newnham—Sir
Vesey Colclough—Sir Frederick Flood—Sir John Blacquiere—Sir Boyle
Roche, and his curious bulls—Their characters and personal
description—Anecdotes and bon-mots—Anecdote of the Marquess of
Waterford.
Among those parliamentary gentlemen frequently to be found in the
coffee-room of the House, were certain baronets, of very singular
character, who, until some division called them to vote, passed the
intermediate time in high conviviality. Sir John Stuart Hamilton, a man
of small fortune and large stature, possessing a most liberal appetite
both for solids and fluids—much wit, more humour, and indefatigable
cheerfulness,—might be regarded as their leader.
Sir Richard Musgrave, who (except on the abstract topics of politics,
religion, martial law, his wife, the pope, the pretender, the Jesuits,
Napper Tandy, and the whipping-post,) was generally in his senses,
formed, during those intervals, a very entertaining addition to the
company: he was extremely full of anecdote (given in rather a
rhapsodical vein) about Martin Luther, Tod Jones, Pope Pius, Sir Judkin
Fitzgerald, Doctor Troy, &c.
Sir Edward Newnham, member for Dublin county, afforded a whimsical
variety by his affectation of early and exclusive transatlantic
intelligence. By repeatedly writing letters of congratulation, he had at
length extorted a reply from General Washington, which he exhibited upon
every occasion, giving it to be understood, by significant nods, that he
knew vastly more than he thought proper to communicate to any body.
Sir Vesey Colclough, member for County Wexford, who understood books and
wine better than any of the party, had all his days treated money so
extremely ill, that it would continue no longer in his service! and the
dross (as he termed it) having entirely forsaken him, he _bequeathed_ an
immense landed property, during his _life_, to the uses of custodiums,
elegits, and judgments, which never fail to place a gentleman’s acres
under the especial guardianship of the attorneys. He was father to that
excellent man, John Colclough, who was killed at Wexford, and to the
present Cæsar Colclough, whose fall might have afforded rather less
cause of regret than his brother’s.
Sir Vesey added much to the pleasantry of the party by occasionally
forcing on them deep subjects of literature, of which few of his
companions could make either head or tail: but to avoid the _imputation_
of ignorance, they often gave the most ludicrous _proofs_ of it on
literary subjects, geography, history, and astronomy, with which he
eternally bored them.
Sir Frederick Flood, also member for County Wexford, whose exhibitions
in the Imperial Parliament have made him tolerably well known in
England, was very different in his habits from the last-mentioned
baronet;—his love of _the dross_, and spirit of ostentation, never
losing their hold throughout every action of his life. He was but a
second-rate blunderer in Ireland. The bulls of Sir Boyle Roche (of whom
we shall speak hereafter) commonly involved aphorisms of sound sense,
while Sir Frederick’s (on the other hand) possessed the qualification of
being, in general, pure nonsense.
He was a _pretty_, dapper man, very good-tempered; and had a droll
habit, of which he could never effectually break himself (at least in
Ireland):—whenever a person at his back whispered or suggested any thing
to him while he was speaking in public, without a moment’s reflection he
almost always involuntarily repeated the suggestion _literatim_.
Sir Frederick was once making a long speech in the Irish Parliament,
lauding the transcendent merits of the Wexford magistracy, on a motion
for extending the criminal jurisdiction in that county, to keep down the
disaffected. As he was closing a most turgid oration, by moving “that
the said magistracy ought to receive some signal mark of the lord
lieutenant’s favour,”—John Egan, who was rather mellow, and sitting
behind him, jocularly whispered, “and be whipped at the cart’s
tail:”—“and be whipped at the cart’s tail!” repeated Sir Frederick
unconsciously, amidst peals of the most uncontrollable laughter.—Mr.
Egan then rose, and seconded the motion: this was irresistible. Sir
Frederick’s achievements in the English House of Commons were quite
insipid.
Sir John Blacquiere flew at higher game than the other baronets, though
he occasionally fell into the trammels of Sir John Hamilton. Sir John
Blacquiere was a little deaf of one ear, for which circumstance he gave
a very singular reason:—his seat, when secretary, was the outside one on
the treasury bench, next to a gangway; and he said that so many members
used to come perpetually to whisper him, and the buzz of importunity was
so heavy and continuous,—that before one claimant’s words had got out of
his ear, the demand of another forced its way in, till the ear-drum,
being overcharged, absolutely burst! which, he said, turned out
conveniently enough, as he was then obliged to stuff the organ tight,
and tell every gentleman that his physician had directed him not to use
_that_ ear at all, and _the other_ as little as possible!
Sir John Stuart Hamilton played him one day, in the corridor of the
House of Commons, a trick which was a source of great entertainment to
all parties. Joseph Hughes, a country farmer and neighbour of Sir John
Stuart Hamilton, who knew nothing of great men, and (in common with many
remote farmers of that period) had very seldom been in Dublin, was hard
pressed to raise some money to pay the fine on a renewal of a bishop’s
lease—his only property.—He came directly to Sir John, who, I believe,
had himself drunk the farmer’s spring pretty dry, whilst he could get
any thing out of it. As they were standing together in one of the
corridors of the Parliament-house, Sir John Blacquiere stopped to say
something to his brother baronet:—his star, which he frequently wore on
rather shabby coats, struck the farmer’s eye, who had never seen such a
thing before; and coupling it with the very black visage of the wearer,
and his peculiar appearance altogether, our rustic was induced humbly to
ask Sir John Hamilton “who that man was with the silver sign on his
coat?”
“Don’t you know him?” cried Sir John; “why, that is a famous Jew
money-broker.”
“May-be, please your honour, he could do my little business for me,”
responded the honest farmer.
“Trial’s all!” said Sir John.
“I’ll pay well,” observed Joseph.
“That’s precisely what he likes,” replied the baronet.
“Pray, Sir John,” continued the farmer, “what’s those words on his
_sign_?” (alluding to the motto on the star.)
“Oh,” answered the other, “they are Latin, ‘_Tria juncta in uno_.’”
“And may I crave the English thereof?” asked the unsuspecting
countryman.
“_Three_ in a _bond_,” said Sir John.
“Then I can match him, by J—s!” exclaimed Hughes.
“You’ll be hard set,” cried the malicious baronet; “however, you may
try.”
Hughes then approaching Blacquiere, who had removed but a very small
space, told him with great civility and a significant nod, that he had a
little matter to mention, which he trusted would be agreeable to both
parties. Blacquiere drew him aside and desired him to proceed. “To come
to the point then, at once,” said Hughes, “the money is not to say a
great deal, and I can give you three in a bond—myself and two good men
as any in Cavan, along with me. I hope that will answer you. _Three_ in
a _bond_! safe good men!”
Sir John Blacquiere, who wanted a supply himself, had the day before
sent to a person who had advertised the lending of money; and, on
hearing the above harangue, (taking for granted that it resulted from
his own application,) he civilly assured Hughes that a bond would be of
no use to him! good bills might be negotiated, or securities turned into
cash, though at a loss; but _bonds_ would not answer at all.
“I think I can get another man, and that’s one more than your _sign_
requires,” said Hughes.
“I tell you,” repeated Sir John, “_bonds_ will not answer at all,
sir!—_bills! bills!_”
“Then it’s fitter,” retorted the incensed farmer, “for you to be after
putting your _sign_ there in your pocket, than wearing it to deceive the
_Christians_, you damn’d usurer! you _Jew_, you!”
Nobody could be more amused by this _dénouement_ than Blacquiere
himself, who told every body he knew, of “Hamilton’s trick upon _the
countryman_.”
Sir Richard Musgrave, although he understood _drawing the long bow_ as
well as most people, never patronised it in any other individual. Sir
John Hamilton did not spare the exercise of this accomplishment in
telling a story, one day, in the presence of Sir Richard, who declared
his incredulity rather abruptly, as indeed was his constant manner. Sir
John was much nettled at the mode in which the other dissented, more
particularly as there were some strangers present. He asseverated the
truth on his _word_: Sir Richard, however, repeating his disbelief, Sir
John Hamilton furiously exclaimed—“You say you don’t believe my word?”
“I _can’t_ believe it,” replied Sir Richard.
“Well, then,” said Sir John, “if you won’t believe my _word_, by G—d
I’ll give it you under my _hand_!” clenching at the same moment his
great fist.
The witticism raised a general laugh, in which the parties themselves
joined, and in a moment all was good-humour. But the company condemned
both the offenders—Sir John for _telling_ a lie, and Sir Richard for
_not believing_ it—to the payment of two bottles of hock each.
Whoever the following story may be fathered on, Sir John Hamilton was
certainly its parent. The Duke of Rutland, at one of his levees, being
at a loss (as probably most kings, princes, and viceroys occasionally
are) for something to say to every person he was bound in etiquette to
notice, remarked to Sir John Hamilton that there was “a prospect of an
excellent crop:—the timely rain,” observed the duke, “will bring every
thing above ground.”
“God forbid, your Excellency!” exclaimed the courtier.
His excellency stared, whilst Sir John continued, sighing heavily as he
spoke:—“yes, God forbid! for I have got _three wives_ under it!”
At one of those large convivial parties which distinguished the table of
Major Hobart, when he was secretary in Ireland, among the usual loyal
toasts, “The wooden walls of England” being given,—Sir John Hamilton, in
his turn, gave “The wooden walls of Ireland!” This toast being quite new
to us all, he was asked for an explanation: upon which, filling a
bumper, he very gravely stood up, and bowing to the Marquess of
Waterford and several country gentlemen, who commanded county regiments,
he said—“My lords and gentlemen! I have the pleasure of giving you ‘The
wooden walls of Ireland’—_the colonels of militia_!”
So broad but so good-humoured a _jeu d’esprit_, excited great merriment:
the _truth_ was forgotten in the jocularity, but the epithet did not
perish. I saw only one grave countenance in the room, and that belonged
to the late Marquess of Waterford, who was the proudest egotist I ever
met with. He had a tremendous squint—the eyes looking _inward_, a
disposition which Lavater particularly characterises; and as to the
marquess, he was perfectly right: nor was there any thing prepossessing
in the residue of his features to atone for this deformity. Nothing can
better exemplify his lordship’s opinion of himself and others, than an
observation I heard him make at Lord Portarlington’s table. Having
occasion for a _superlative_ degree of _comparison_ between two persons,
he was at a loss for a climax. At length, however, he luckily hit on
one. “That man was—(said the marquess)—he was as superior as—as—as—I am
to Lord Ranelagh!”
I will now advert to Sir Boyle Roche, who certainly was, without
exception, the most celebrated and entertaining anti-grammarian in the
Irish Parliament. I knew him intimately. He was of a very respectable
Irish family, and, in point of appearance, a fine, bluff, soldier-like
old gentleman. He had numerous good qualities; and having been long in
the army, his ideas were full of honour and etiquette—of discipline and
bravery. He had a claim to the title of Fermoy, which however he never
pursued; and was brother to the famous Tiger Roche, who fought some
desperate duel abroad, and was near being hanged for it.[41] Sir Boyle
was perfectly well-bred in all his habits; had been appointed
gentleman-usher at the Irish Court, and executed the duties of that
office to the day of his death with the utmost satisfaction to himself
as well as to every one in connexion with him. He was married to the
eldest daughter of Sir John Frankland, Bart.; and his lady, who was a
_bas bleu_, prematurely injured Sir Boyle’s capacity (it was said) by
forcing him to read “Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,”
whereat he was so cruelly puzzled without being in the least amused,
that, in his cups, he often stigmatised the great historian as a
low-bred fellow, who ought to have been kicked out of company whereever
he was, for turning people’s thoughts away from their prayers and their
politics, to what the devil himself could make neither head nor tail of!
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Footnote 41:
He regarded swords no more than knitting-needles, and pinked every man
he faced in combat.
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His perpetually bragging that Sir John Frankland had given him his
_eldest_ daughter, afforded Curran an opportunity of replying,—“Ay, Sir
Boyle, and depend on it, if he had had an _older_ one still, he would
have given her to you!” Sir Boyle thought it best to receive the
repartee as a compliment, lest it should come to her ladyship’s ears,
who, for several years back, had prohibited Sir Boyle from all allusions
to chronology.
This baronet had certainly one great advantage over all other bull and
blunder makers: he seldom launched a blunder from which some fine
aphorism or maxim might not be easily extracted. When a debate arose in
the Irish House of Commons on the vote of a grant which was recommended
by Sir John Parnell, chancellor of the exchequer, as one not likely to
be felt burdensome for many years to come,—it was observed in reply,
that the House had no just right to load posterity with a weighty debt
for what could in no degree operate to their advantage. Sir Boyle, eager
to defend the measures of government, immediately rose, and, in a few
words, put forward the most unanswerable argument which human ingenuity
could possibly devise. “What, Mr. Speaker!” said he, “and so we are to
beggar ourselves for fear of vexing posterity! Now, I would ask the
honourable gentleman, and this _still more_ honourable House, why we
should put ourselves out of our way to do any thing for _posterity_:—for
what has _posterity_ done for _us_?”
Sir Boyle, hearing the roar of laughter which of course followed this
sensible blunder, but not being conscious that he had said any thing out
of the way, was rather puzzled, and conceived that the House had
misunderstood him. He therefore begged leave to explain, as he
apprehended that gentlemen had entirely mistaken his words: he assured
the House “that by _posterity_ he did not at all mean our _ancestors_,
but those who were to come _immediately_ after _them_!” Upon hearing
this _explanation_, it was impossible to do any serious business for
half an hour.
Sir Boyle Roche was induced by government to fight as hard as possible
for the Union:—so he did, and I really believe fancied, by degrees, that
he was right. On one occasion, a general titter arose at his florid
picture of the happiness which must proceed from this event. “Gentlemen
(said Sir Boyle) may titther, and titther, and titther, and may think it
a bad measure; but their heads at present are hot, and will so remain
till they grow cool again; and so they can’t decide right now; but when
the _day of judgment_ comes, _then_ honourable gentlemen will be
satisfied at this most excellent Union! Sir, there is no Levitical
degrees between nations, and on this occasion I can see neither sin nor
shame in _marrying our own sister_!”
He was a determined enemy to the French Revolution, and seldom rose in
the House for several years without volunteering some abuse of it.
“Mr. Speaker,” said he, in a mood of this kind, “if we once permitted
the villanous French masons to meddle with the buttresses and walls of
our ancient constitution, they would never stop nor stay, sir, till they
brought the foundation-stones tumbling down about the ears of the
nation! There,” continued Sir Boyle, placing his hand earnestly on his
heart, his powdered head shaking in unison with his loyal zeal, whilst
he described the probable consequences of an invasion of Ireland by the
French republicans;—“There, Mr. Speaker! if those Gallican villains
should invade us, sir, ’tis on _that very table_, may-be, these
honourable members might see their own destinies lying in heaps a-top of
one another! Here perhaps, sir, the murderous _marshal-law-men_
(Marseillois) would break in, cut us into joints, and throw our bleeding
heads upon that table, to stare us in the face!”
Sir Boyle, on another occasion, was arguing for the Habeas Corpus
Suspension Bill in Ireland:—“It would surely be better, Mr. Speaker,”
said he, “to give up not only a _part_, but, if necessary, even the
_whole_, of our constitution, to preserve _the remainder_!”
This baronet having been one of the Irish Parliamentary curiosities
before the Union, I have only exemplified his _mode_ of blundering, as
many ridiculous sayings have been attributed to him. He blundered
certainly more than any public speaker in Ireland; but his bulls were
rather logical perversions, and had some strong point in most of them.
The English people consider a bull as nothing more than a vulgar
nonsensical expression: but Irish blunders are frequently humorous
hyperboles or _oxymorons_,[42] and present very often the most energetic
mode of expressing the speaker’s meaning.
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Footnote 42: