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.”
“Ay,” replied Curran, “but it is the very worst _speaking_ wig I ever
had. I can scarce utter one word of _common law_ in it; and as for
_equity_, it is totally out of the question.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Gahan, the wig-maker, with a serious face, “I hope
it may be no loss to me. I dare say it will answer Counsellor Trench.”
But Counsellor Trench would not take the wig. He said, though it did not
impede his _speech_, he could not _hear_ a word in it. At length, it was
sent by Gahan to Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, who, having at that time no
pressing occasion for either a speaking or hearing wig (in a
professional way), and the wig fitting his head, he purchased it from
Mr. Gahan, who sold it a bargain, on account of its bad
character;—though Curran afterwards said, “he admitted that the wig had
been grossly calumniated; for the very same head which Mr. Vesey
Fitzgerald then put it on was afterward fixed up at the front of the
Irish exchequer, where every one of the king’s debtors and farmers were
obliged to pay the wig-wearer some very handsome and _substantial_
compliment!—the said wearer not being necessitated either to _hear_ or
_speak_ one word upon the occasion.”
Chief Justice Carleton was a very languishing personage. He never ceased
complaining of his bad state of health, and frequently introduced Lady
Carleton into his “Book of Lamentations:” thence it was remarked by
Curran to be very extraordinary, that the chief justice should appear as
plaintiff (_plaintive_) in every cause that happened to come before him!
One _Nisi Prius_ day, Lord Carleton came into court, looking unusually
gloomy. He apologised to the bar for being necessitated to adjourn the
court and dismiss the jury for that day; “though,” proceeded his
lordship, “I am aware that an important issue stands for trial: but, the
fact is, I have met with a domestic misfortune, which has altogether
deranged my nerves!—Poor Lady Carleton (in a low tone to the bar) has
most unfortunately _miscarried_, and——”
“Oh, then, my Lord!” exclaimed Curran, “there was no necessity for your
lordship to make any apology; it now appears that your lordship has _no
issue_ to try.”
The chief justice faintly smiled, and thanked the bar for their
_consideration_.
In 1812, Curran dined at my house in Brookstreet, London. He was very
dejected: I did my utmost to rouse him—in vain. He leaned his face on
his hand, and was long silent. He looked yellow and wrinkled; the
dramatic fire had left his eye, the spirit of his wit had fled, his
person was shrunken, his features were all relaxed and drooping, and his
whole demeanour appeared miserably distressing.
After a long pause, a dubious tear standing in his dark eye, he on a
sudden exclaimed, with a sort of desperate composure, “Barrington, I am
perishing! day by day I’m perishing! I feel it: you knew me when I
_lived_—and you witness my _annihilation_.” He was again silent.
I felt deeply for him. I saw that he spoke truth: his lamp was fast
approaching its last glimmer: reasoning with him would have been vain,
and I therefore tried another course—_bagatelle_. I jested with him, and
reminded him of old anecdotes. He listened—gradually his attention was
caught, and at length I excited a smile; a laugh soon followed, a few
glasses of wine brought him to his natural temperament, and Curran was
himself for a great part of the evening. I saw, however, that he would
soon relapse, and so it turned out: he began to talk to me about his
_family_, and that very wildly. He had conceived some strange prejudices
on that head, which I disputed with him, until I was wearied. It was a
subject he seemed actually insane on: his ideas were quite
_extraordinary_, and appeared to me steeled against all reason. He said
he felt his last day approaching; his thoughts had taken their _final
station_, and were unchangeable.
We supped together, and he sat cheerful enough till I turned him into a
coach, at one o’clock in the morning.
Mr. Curran had a younger brother, who was an attorney—very like him, but
taller and better-looking. This man had a good deal of his brother’s
humour, a little wit, and much satire; but his slang was infinite, and
his conduct very dissolute. He was, in fact, what may be termed the best
blackguard of his profession (and that was saying a great deal for him).
My friend had justly excluded him from his house, but occasionally
relieved his finances, until these calls became so importunate, that, at
length, further compliance was refused.
“Sir,” said the attorney to me one day, “if you will speak to my
brother, I am sure he’ll give me something handsome before the week is
out!” I assured him he was mistaken, whereupon he burst into a loud
laugh!
There was a small space of dead wall, at that time, directly facing
Curran’s house, in Ely Place; against which the attorney procured a
written permission to build a little wooden box. He accordingly got a
carpenter (one of his comrades) to erect a cobbler’s stall there for
him; and having assumed the dress of a Jobson, he wrote over his stall,
“Curran, Cobbler:—Shoes toe-pieced, soled, or heeled, on the shortest
notice:—when the stall is shut, inquire _over the way_.”
Curran, on returning from court, perceived this worthy hard at work,
with a parcel of chairmen lounging round him. The attorney just nodded
to his brother, cried, “How do you do, Jack?” and went on with his
employment.
Curran immediately despatched a servant for the spendthrift, to whom
having given some money, the show-board was taken down, the stall
removed, and the attorney vowed that he would never set up again as a
cobbler.
I never knew Curran express more unpleasant feelings than at a
circumstance which really was too trivial to excite any such; but this
was his humour: he generally thought more of trifles than of matters of
importance, and worked himself up into most painful sensations upon
subjects which should only have excited his laughter.
At the commencement of the peace he came to Paris, determined to get
into French society, and thus be enabled to form a better idea of their
habits and manners,—a species of knowledge for which he quite
languished. His parasites (and he liked such) had told him that his fame
had already preceded him even to the closet of Louis _le Désiré_: he
accordingly procured letters of introduction from persons of high rank
in England, who had foolishly lavished favours and fortunes on the gang
of emigrants, in general the most ungrateful (as time has demonstrated)
of the human species, although it was then universally believed that
they could not _quite_ forget the series of kindnesses which had
preserved them from starving or from massacre.
Among other letters, he had the honour of bearing one, couched in strong
terms, from his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex to the Count d’Artois,
now King of France.
“Now I am in the right line,” said Curran, “introduced by a branch of
one royal family to that of another: now I shall have full opportunity
of forming my own opinion as to the sentiments of the old and new
nobility of France, whereon I have been eternally though rather blindly
arguing.”
I was rather sceptical, and said, “I am disposed to think that you will
argue more than ever when you get home again. If you want _sentiment_,
they say in England that Monsieur has very little of _Sterne_ in his
composition.”
“Egad, I believe there is _two_ of you!” retorted Curran; and away he
went to the Tuileries, to enter his name and see Monsieur. Having left
his card and letters of introduction (as desired), he waited ten days
for an audience: Monsieur was occupied.—A second entry was now made by
Curran at the palace; and after ten days more, a third: but Monsieur was
still _occupied_. A fresh entry and card of J. P. C. had no better
success. In my life I never saw Curran so chagrined. He had devised
excuses for the prince two or three times: but this last instance of
neglect quite overcame him, and in a few days he determined to return to
Ireland without seeing the Count d’Artois or ascertaining the sentiments
of the ancient and modern French nobility. He told his story to Mr.
Lewins, a friend of ours in Paris, who said it must be some omission of
the Swiss.
“Certainly,” said Curran, catching at this straw, “it must, no doubt. It
must be some omission of the Swiss. I’ll wait _one week_ more:” and his
opinion was in a few days realised by the receipt of a note from
Monsieur’s aide-de-camp, stating, that His Royal Highness would be glad
to receive Mr. Curran at eight o’clock the following morning at the
Tuileries.
About nine o’clock he returned to the hotel, and all I could get from
him, in his wrath, was “D——n!” In fact, he looked absolutely miserable.
“Only think!” said he, at length; “he told me he always dined with his
_brother_, and kept no establishment of his own; then bowed me out, by
——, as if I was an importunate _dancing-master_!”
“Wait till _the next revolution_, Curran,” said I, “and _then_ we’ll be
even with him!”
At this moment Mr. Lewins came in, and, with a most cheerful
countenance, said, “Well, Curran, I carried your point!”
“What point?” said Curran.
“I knew it would _take_,” pursued Lewins, smirking: “I told Monsieur’s
aide-de-camp that you felt quite hurt and unhappy on account of
Monsieur’s having taken no notice of your letters or yourself, though
you had paid him _four_ visits at long intervals, and that—”
“What do you say?” shouted Curran.
Upon Lewins repeating his words with infinite glee, my disappointed
friend burst out into a regular frenzy, slapped his face repeatedly, and
ran about, exclaiming, “I’m disgraced! I’m humbled in the eyes of that
man! I’m _miserable_!”
I apprehend he experienced but little more civility from any of the
restored gentry of the French emigrants, to several of whom he had
brought letters, and I am sure had he received any notable invitation
from them, I must have heard of it. I fancy that a glass of _eau sucré_
was the very extent of the practical hospitality he experienced from
_Messieurs les émigrés_, who, if I might judge by their jaws and cravats
of the quantity and quality of their food, and of their credit with
washerwomen, were by no means in so flourishing a state as when they
lived on our benevolence.
There is much of the life of this celebrated man[67] omitted by those
who have attempted to write it. Even his son (a barrister, whom I have
never seen) could have known but little of him, as he was not born at
the time his father’s glories were at their zenith. Before he became the
biographer of his celebrated parent, Mr. Curran would have done well to
inquire who had been that parent’s decided friends, and who his
invidious enemies; who supported him when his fame was tottering, and
who assailed him when he was incapable of resistance: if he had used
this laudable discretion before he commenced his _character_, he would
probably have learned how to _eulogise_, and how to _censure_, with more
justice and discrimination.
-----
Footnote 67:
Curran died, I believe, at Brompton, and was buried in Paddington
church-yard; but I am ignorant whether or not a stone marks the spot.
-----
No gentlemen of our day knew Mr. Curran more intimately than myself,
although our natural propensities were in many points quite uncongenial.
His vanity too frequently misled his judgment, and he thought himself
surrounded by a crowd of friends, when he was encompassed by a set of
vulgar flatterers: he looked quite carelessly at the distinctions of
society, and in consequence ours was not generally of the same class,
and our intercourse more frequently at my house than at his. But he
could adapt himself to all ranks, and was equally at home at Merrion
Square or at the Priory.
The celebrity of Curran’s life, and the obscurity of his death—the
height of his eminence, and the depth of his depression—the extent of
his talents, and the humiliation of his imbecility—exhibited the
greatest and most singular contrast I ever knew among the host of public
characters with whom I so long associated.
At the bar I never saw an orator so capable of producing those
irresistible transitions of effect which form the true criterion of
forensic eloquence. But latterly, no man became more capable, in private
society, of exciting drowsiness by prosing, or disgust by grossness:
such are the inconsistent materials of humanity.[68]
-----
Footnote 68:
It is very singular that Mr. Duguery, one of the most accomplished
men, the most eloquent barristers, and best lawyers I ever knew, (a
cousin-german of Lord Donoughmore,) fell latterly, though at an early
age, into a state of total imbecility—became utterly regardless of
himself, of society, and of the world;—and lived long enough to render
his death a mercy!
-----
I should not allude here to a painful subject as respects the late Mr.
Curran, had it not been so commonly spoken of, and so prominent an agent
in his ulterior misfortunes: I mean that unlucky suit of his against the
Rev. Mr. Sandes. I endeavoured as much as possible to dissuade him from
commencing that action, having reason to feel convinced that it must
terminate in his discomfiture; but he was obdurate, and had bitter cause
to lament his obduracy. I did my utmost also to dissuade him from his
unfortunate difference with Mr. Ponsonby. I told him (as I firmly
believed) that he was _wrong_, or at all events _imprudent_, and that
his reputation could bear no more trifling with: but he did not credit
me, and that blow felled him to the earth!