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!”
Upward of an hour elapsed before I could even half convince him that he
was wrong; but at length I hit on the only argument that could make any
impression on him, and extracted a promise that he would let the affair
drop:—“Grattan,” said I, “recollect matters, and have consideration for
_me_.” He started:—“Yes,” continued I, “you know it was solely on my
account that you exposed yourself to any insult; and do you think I
could remain an idle _spectator_, in a conflict whereof I was the
_cause_?—If you do not promise me that you will go ‘no further in this
business,’ I shall instantly make the thing personal with Giffard
_myself_.”
For a moment he was silent, then smiling—“Coriolanus,” said he, “replied
to his parent—‘_Mother!_ you have conquered!’—I _will_ go no further.”
“I humbly thank you,” said I, “for making an old woman of me!”—He then
went away, as I conceived, tolerably satisfied.—He had come thus
privately (for the curtains were drawn round his chair) to avoid
suspicion being excited of his intentions, and the authorities
consequently interfering to prevent the combat. My surprise may be
imagined, when, at six o’clock the next morning, I was roused by the
same announcement of a _gentleman_ in a _chair_! I knew it must be
Grattan, and directed him to be brought in.
I had now the same game to play over again. He said he had not slept a
wink all night, from thinking about “that Giffard;” and that he “_must_
have a shot at him.” Another course now suggested itself to me, and I
told him I had, on consideration, determined, whether right or wrong,
that, if he persevered, I would wait upon the sheriff and get him bound
over to keep the peace. He was not pleased at this, but had no option:
he strode about the room, taking long steps and frequently raising
himself up, as was his custom whenever agitated.—I was peremptory; and
ultimately he agreed not to revive the subject during the election.
Mr. Egan (one of the roughest-looking persons possible), being at one
time a supporter of government, made virulent philippics, in the Irish
House of Commons, against the French Revolution. His figure was coarse
and bloated, and his dress not over-elegant withal; in fact, he had by
no means the look of a member of Parliament.
One evening he fell foul of a speech of Grattan’s; and among other
absurdities, said in his paroxysm, that the right honourable gentleman’s
speech had a tendency to introduce the _guillotine_ into the very body
of the House: indeed, he almost thought he could already _perceive_ it
before him!—(“Hear him! hear him!” echoed from Sir Boyle Roche.) Grattan
good-humouredly replied, that the honourable member must have a vastly
sharper sight than he had. He certainly could see no such thing: “but
though,” added Grattan, looking with his glass toward Egan, “I may not
see the guillotine, yet methinks I can perceive the _executioner_!”
“Order! order!” shouted Sir Boyle Roche: “_Dis_order! _dis_order!” cried
Curran:—a general laugh prevented any further observation.
Colonel Burr, who had been vice-president of America, and probably would
have been the next president, but for his unfortunate duel with General
Hamilton, came over to England, and was made known to me by Mr.
Randolph, of Virginia, a gentleman with whom I was very intimate. He
requested I would introduce him to Mr. Grattan, whom he was excessively
anxious to see. Colonel Burr was not a man of prepossessing
appearance—rough-featured, and neither dressy nor polished—but a
well-informed, sensible man; and though not a particularly agreeable,
yet an instructive companion.[63]
-----
Footnote 63:
I see in the “American Review” of the former edition of this work, a
remark that I was _mistaken_ in my picture of Colonel Burr.—They must
know better than me; I only state what my _impression_ was on
superficial knowledge.
-----
People in general form extravagant anticipations regarding eminent
persons. The idea of a _great orator_ and _Irish chief_ carried with it,
naturally enough, corresponding notions of physical powers, elegance,
vigour, and dignity. Such was Colonel Burr’s mistake, I believe, about
Mr. Grattan, and I took care not to undeceive him.
We went to my friend’s house, who was to leave London next day. I
announced that Colonel Burr (from America), Mr. Randolph, and myself,
wished to pay our respects; and the servant informed us that his master
would receive us in a short time, but was at the moment much occupied on
business of consequence. Burr’s expectations were of course on the
alert! Randolph also was anxious to be presented to the great Grattan;
and both impatient for the entrance of this Demosthenes. At length the
door opened, and in hopped a small bent figure,—meagre, yellow, and
ordinary; one slipper and one shoe; his breeches’ knees loose; his
cravat hanging down; his shirt and coat-sleeves tucked up high, and an
old hat upon his head.
This apparition saluted the strangers very courteously:—asked (without
any introduction) how long they had been in England, and immediately
proceeded to make inquiries about the late General Washington and the
revolutionary war. My companions looked at each other:—their replies
were costive, and they seemed quite impatient to see _Mr. Grattan_! I
could scarcely contain myself; but determined to let my eccentric,
unconscious countryman take his course: he appeared quite delighted to
see his visitors, and was the most inquisitive person in the world.
Randolph was far the tallest, and most dignified-looking man of the two,
gray-haired and well-dressed: Grattan, therefore, took _him_ for the
late vice-president, and addressed him accordingly. Randolph at length
begged to know if they could shortly have the honour of seeing Mr.
Grattan!—Upon which, our host (not doubting but they knew him) conceived
it must be his _son_ James for whom they inquired, and said, he believed
he had that moment wandered out somewhere to amuse himself!
This completely disconcerted the Americans: they looked at each other,
then at me, and were about to make their bow and their exit, when I
thought it high time to explain; and, taking Colonel Burr and Mr.
Randolph respectively by the hand, introduced them to the Right
Honourable Henry Grattan.
I never saw people stare so, or more embarrassed! Grattan himself now
perceiving the cause, heartily joined in my merriment:—he pulled down
his shirt-sleeves, pulled up his stockings, and, in his own irresistible
way, apologised for the _outré_ figure he cut, assuring them he had
totally overlooked his toilet, in anxiety not to keep them waiting; that
he was returning to Ireland next morning, and had been busily packing up
his books and papers in a closet full of dust and cobwebs! This
circumstance rendered the interview more interesting: the subject of
colonial independence recommenced, and Grattan shone. The Americans were
charmed with their reception; and, after a protracted visit, retired
highly gratified: whilst Grattan returned again to his books and
cobwebs, regretting very heartily that his immediate departure prevented
him from having the pleasure of their further society.
Nobody lamented more than myself the loss of this distinguished man and
true patriot, who, as every one knows, breathed his last in the British
metropolis, after a long and painful illness; and the public papers soon
after announced, to my astonishment and chagrin, the fact of
preparations being on foot for his interment in Westminster Abbey! I
say, to my astonishment and chagrin; because it was sufficiently plain
that this affected mark of respect was only meant to restrain the honest
enthusiasm which might have attended his funeral obsequies in his own
country.
The subtle minister then ruling the councils of Britain, knew full well
that vanity is the falsest guide of human judgment, and therefore held
out that Westminster Abbey (the indiscriminate dormitory of generals and
spies—of ministers, admirals, and poets,) was the most honourable
resting-place for the remains of an Irish patriot. This lure was
successful; and, accordingly, he who had made British ministers tremble
in the cabinet—whose forbearance they had propitiated by a tender of the
king’s best palace in Ireland[64]—and whose fame they had, nevertheless,
endeavoured to destroy, and whose principles they had calumniated,—was
escorted to the grave by the most decided of his enemies, and (as if in
mockery of his country and himself) inhumed among the inveterate foes of
Ireland and of Grattan! It is mean to say that Lord Castlereagh had
latterly _changed his opinion_, and become _civil_ to his illustrious
opponent:—so much the worse! he thereby confessed that, in 1797, and the
two following years, he had laboured to destroy an _innocent_ man and to
disgrace an Irish patriot, who, during a great portion of that period,
lay on the bed of sickness.
-----
Footnote 64:
See my “Historic Memoirs of Ireland,” (vol. ii.) where this curious
incident is fully detailed. The offer was unexampled; the refusal (in
my opinion) injudicious.
-----
The Duke of Leinster, doubtless with the best possible motives, but with
a view of the subject differing from my own, suggested that Ireland
should do honour to her patriot son, by erecting a cenotaph to his
memory. This, I must confess, appears to me (I speak of it merely as
matter of opinion) to be nothing more than cold-blooded mockery—a
compliment diminutive and empty. Toward _such_ a monument I would not
subscribe one farthing:—but if the revered ashes of my friend could be
restored to his country, there is no Irishman who (in proportion to his
means) would go beyond myself in contributing to raise a monumental
column which should outvie the pillars dedicated in Dublin to the
glorious butcheries of _Trafalgar and Waterloo_: while _these_ are
proudly commemorated, no national pile records the more truly glorious
triumphs of 1782—nor the formation of that irresistible army of
volunteers which (in a right cause) defied all the power of England! But
my voice shall not be silent: and deeply do I regret the untoward fate
by which this just tribute to national and individual virtues has
devolved upon the feeble powers of an almost superannuated writer.
Ireland gave me birth and bread; and though I am disgusted with its
present state, I love the country still. I have endeavoured to give (in
a more important work) some sketches of its modern history at the most
prosperous epochas, with gloomy anecdotes of its fall as an independent
kingdom; and if God grants me a little longer space, I shall publish my
honest ideas of the ruin to which the British Empire will not long
remain blind, if she continue to pursue the same system (which seven
hundred years have proved to be a destructive one) in that misgoverned
country.
Extract of a letter from Sir Jonah Barrington to the present Henry
Grattan, Esq., M.P.:—
“My dear Grattan,
“I regret your not receiving my letter, in reply to
yours, written immediately after the lamented departure of my
honoured friend. In that letter I proposed forthwith to publish
the sequel of my character of Mr. Grattan, accompanied with his
portrait and some additional observations. I had composed the
sequel, much to my own satisfaction, as the continuation of his
character promised in the number of my historical work where I
say ‘his career is not yet finished.’
“Your last letter did not reach me for five months, and having
received no reply to mine, I threw the manuscript into the fire,
keeping no copy; it was scarcely consumed, however, before I
repented the having done so.
“But now permit an old and sensitive friend to expostulate a
little with you, in the simple garb of queries:—
“Why, and for what good reason,—with what policy, or on what
feeling, are the bones of the most illustrious of Irishmen
suffered to moulder in the same ground with his country’s
enemies?
“Why suffer him to be escorted to the grave by the mock
pageantry of those whose political vices and corruptions
ravished from Ireland every thing which his talent and integrity
had obtained for her?
“Why send his countrymen on a foreign pilgrimage, to worship the
shrine of their canonised benefactor? Were not the cathedrals of
Ireland worthy to be honoured by his urn,—or the youths of Erin
to be animated by knowing that they possessed his ashes? Can it
be gratifying to the feelings of his countrymen to pay the
sexton of a British abbey a mercenary shilling for permission
even to see the grave-stone of your parent?[65]
“You were deceived by the blandishments of our mortal enemy: he
knew that political idolatry has great power, and excites great
influence in nations. The shrine of a patriot has often proved
to be the standard of liberty; and it was therefore good policy
in a British statesman to suppress our excitements:—the
mausoleum of Rousseau is raised in France—the _tradition_ of
Grattan only will remain to his compatriots.
“He lived the life—he died the death—but he does not sleep in
the tomb of an Irish patriot! England has taken away our
constitution, and even the relics of its founder are retained
through the duplicity of his enemy.
“You have now my sentiments on the matter, and by frankly
expressing them, I have done my duty to you, to myself, and to
my country.
“Your ever affectionate and sincere friend,
“JONAH BARRINGTON.”
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Footnote 65:
I was myself once refused even admittance into Westminster
Abbey, wherein his ashes rest!—the sexton affirming that the
_proper hour_ was past!
-----