Dinner-party at the Rev. Mr. Thomas’s—The author among the guests, in
company with John Philpot Curran—General punctuality of the latter at
dinner-time—His mysterious non-appearance—Speculations and
reports—Diver, from Newfoundland—His simultaneous absence—The house
searched—Discovery of a ghost, and its metamorphosis into Curran—A
curious blockade—Its relief, and accompanying circumstances—Comments
of the author.
The late Mr. Curran was certainly one of the most distinguished of
Irishmen, not only in wit and eloquence, but in eccentricity: of this
quality in him, one or two traits have been presented to the reader in
the former part of this work; and the following incident will still
further illustrate it.
The Reverend Mr. Thomas, whose _sobriquet_ in his neighbourhood was
“Long Thomas,” he being nearly six feet and a half high, resided near
Carlow, and once invited Curran and myself to spend a day and sleep at
his house on our return from the assizes. We accepted the invitation
with pleasure, as he was an old college companion of mine—a joyous,
good-natured, hospitable, hard-going divine as any in his county.
The Reverend Jack Read, a three-bottle parson of Carlow, with several
other jolly neighbours, were invited to meet us, and to be treated with
the wit and pleasantry of the celebrated Counsellor Curran, who was
often extremely fond of shining in that class of society.
We all arrived in due time;—dinner was appointed for five _precisely_,
as Curran always stipulated (wherever he could make so free) for the
punctuality of the dinner-bell to a single minute. The very best cheer
was provided by our host: at the proper time, the dishes lay basking
before the fire, in readiness to receive the several provisions all
smoking for the counsellor, &c. The clock, which, to render the cook
more punctual, had been that very noon regulated by the sundial, did not
on its part vary one second. Its hammer and bell melodiously sounded
_five_, and announced the happy signal for the banquet. All the guests
assembled in the dining-room, which was, in honest Thomas’s house, that
apartment which the fine people of our day would call a drawing-room—the
latter being then by no means regarded as indispensable in the
dwelling-house of a moderate gentlemen. The family parlour, in fact,
answered its purpose mighty well.
Every guest of the reverend host having now decided on his chair, and
turned down his plate, in order to be as near as possible to Counsellor
Curran, proceeded to whet his knife against the edge of his neighbour’s,
to give it a due keenness for the most tempting side of the luscious
sirloin, which by anticipation frizzed upon its pewter dish. Veal,
mutton, turkey, ham, duck, and partridge, all “piping hot,” were ready
and willing to leap from their pots and spits into their respective
dishes, and to take a warm bath each in its proper gravy. The cork-screw
was busily employed: the wine-decanters ornamented the four corners of
the well-dressed table, and the punch, jugged, and bubbling hot upon the
hearth-stone, perfumed the whole room with its aromatic potsheen odour.
Every thing bespoke a most joyous and protracted banquet;—but,
meanwhile, where was the great object of the feast?—the wheedler of the
petty juries, and the admonisher of the grand ones? Where was the great
orator, in consequence of whose brilliant reputation such a company was
collected? The fifth hour had long passed, and impatience became visible
on every countenance. Each guest, who had a watch, gave his fob no
tranquillity, and never were timekeepers kept on harder duty. The first
half-hour surprised the company; the next quarter _astonished_, and the
last _alarmed_ it. The clock, by _six_ solemn notes, set the whole party
surmising, and the host appeared nearly in a state of stupefaction. Day
had departed, and twilight was rapidly following its example, yet no
tidings of the orator: never had the like been known with regard to
Curran—punctuality at dinner being a portion of his very nature. There
are not more days in a leap year than there were different conjectures
broached as to the cause of my friend’s non-appearance. The people about
the house were sent out on the several roads to reconnoitre. He had been
seen, certainly, in the garden at four o’clock, but never after;—yet
every now and then a message came in to announce, that “an old man had
seen _a counsellor_, as he verily believed, walking very quick on the
road to Carlow.” Another reported that “a woman who was driving home her
cow met one of the counsellors going leisurely toward Athy, and that he
seemed very _melancholy_; that she had seen him at the ’sizes that
blessed morning, and the people towld her it was the great law preacher
that was in it.” Another woman who was bringing home some turf from the
bog, declared before the Virgin and all the Saints that she saw “a
little man in black with a stick in his hand going toward the Barrow;”
and a collough sitting at her own cabin door feeding the _childer_,
positively saw a “black gentleman going down to the river, and soon
afterward heard a great splash of water at the said river; whereupon,
she went _hot-foot_ to her son, Ned Coyle, to send him thither to see if
the gentleman was in the water; but that Ned said, sure enuff nothing
natural would be after going at that time of the deep dusk to the place
where poor Armstrong’s corpse lay the night he was murthered; and he’d
see all the gentlemen in the county to the devil (God bless them!)
before he’d go to the said place till morning early.”
The faithful clock now announced _seven_, and the matter became too
serious to admit of any doubt as to poor Curran having met his
catastrophe. I was greatly shocked; our only conjectures now being, not
_whether_, but _how_, he had lost his life. As Curran was known every
day to strip naked and wash himself all over with a sponge and cold
water, I conjectured, as most rational, that he had, in lieu of his
usual ablution, gone to the Barrow to bathe before dinner, and thus
unfortunately perished. All agreed in my hypothesis, and hooks and a
draw-net were sent for immediately to Carlow, to scour the river for his
body. Nobody, whatever might have been their feelings, _said_ a word
about dinner. The beef, mutton, and veal, as if in grief, had either
turned into broth, or dropped piecemeal from the spit; the poultry fell
from their strings, and were seen broiling in the dripping-pan. The cook
had forgotten her calling, and gone off to make inquiries. The
stable-boy left his horses; indeed, all the domestics, with one accord,
dispersed with lanterns to search for Counsellor Curran in the Barrow.
The Irish cry was let loose, and the neighbourhood soon collected; and
the good-natured parson, our host, literally wept like an infant. I
never saw so much confusion at any _dinner-table_. Such of the guests as
were gifted by Nature with keen appetites, suffered all the tortures of
hunger, of which, nevertheless, they could not in humanity complain; but
a stomachic sympathy of woe was very perceptible in their lamentations
for the untimely fate of so great an orator.
It was at length suggested by our reverend host that his great
Newfoundland dog, who was equally sagacious, if not more so, with many
of the parishioners, and rivalled, in canine proportion, the magnitude
of his master, was not unlikely, by diving in the Barrow, to discover
where the body lay deposited—and thus direct the efforts of the nets and
hookers from Carlow. This idea met with universal approbation; and every
body took up his hat, to go down to the river. Mary, a young damsel, the
only domestic who remained in the house, was ordered to call Diver, the
dog;—but Diver was absent, and did not obey the summons. Every where
resounded, “Diver! Diver!” but in vain.
New and multifarious conjectures now crossed the minds of the different
persons assembled:—the mystery thickened: all the old speculations went
for nothing; it was clear that Curran and Diver had absconded together.
At length, a gentleman in company mentioned the circumstance of a friend
of his having been drowned while bathing, whose dog never left his
clothes, on the bank, till discovered nearly dead with hunger. The
conjecture founded hereon was, however, but momentary, since it soon
appeared that such _could not_ be the case with Curran. I knew that he
both feared and hated big dogs;[15] and besides, there was no
_acquaintance_ between him and the one in question. Diver had never seen
the counsellor before that day, and therefore could have no personal
fondness for him, not to say, that those animals have a sort of
instinctive knowledge as to who likes or dislikes them, and it was more
probable that Diver, if either, would be an enemy instead of a friend to
so great a stranger. But the creature’s absence, at any rate, was
unaccountable, and the more so, inasmuch as he never before had wandered
from his master’s residence.
-----
Footnote 15:
Curran had told me, with infinite humour, of an adventure between him
and a mastiff when he was a boy. He had heard somebody say, that any
person throwing the skirts of his coat over his head, stooping low,
holding out his arms and creeping along backward, might frighten the
fiercest dog and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt on
a miller’s animal in the neighbourhood, who _would never let_ the boys
_rob the orchard_; but found to his sorrow that he had a dog to deal
with who did not care which end of a boy went foremost, so as he could
get a good bite out of it. “I pursued the instructions,” said Curran;
“and, as I had no eyes save those in front, fancied the mastiff was in
full retreat: but I was confoundedly mistaken; for at the very moment
I thought myself victorious, the enemy attacked my rear, and having
got a reasonably good mouthful out of it, was fully prepared to take
another before I was rescued. Egad, I thought for a time the beast had
devoured my entire _centre of gravity_, and that I never should go on
a steady perpendicular again.” “Upon my word, Curran,” said I, “the
mastiff may have left you your _centre_, but he could not have left
much _gravity_ behind him, among the bystanders.”
I had never recollected this story until the affair of Diver at Parson
Thomas’s, and I told it that night to the country gentlemen before
Curran, and for a moment occasioned a hearty laugh against him; but he
soon _floored_ me, in our social converse, which whiled away as
convivial an evening as I ever experienced.
-----
Mary, the maid, was now desired to search _all_ the rooms and offices
for Diver, while we sat pensive and starving in the parlour. We were
speedily alarmed by a loud shriek, immediately after which Mary rushed
tottering into the room, just able to articulate:—
“O, holy Virgin! holy Virgin! yes, gentlemen! the counsellor _is_ dead,
sure enough. And I’ll die too, gentlemen! I’ll never recover it!” and
she crossed herself twenty times over in the way the priest had taught
her.
We all now flocked round, and asked her simultaneously how she _knew_
the counsellor was dead?
Crossing herself again, “I saw his _ghost_, please your reverence!”
cried poor Mary, “and a frightful ghost it was! just out of the river,
and not even _decent_ itself. I’m willing to take my affidavy that I saw
his ghost, quite _indecent_, straight forenent me.”
“Where? where?” cried every body, as if with one breath.
“In the double-bedded room next your reverence’s,” stammered the
terrified girl.
We waited for no more to satisfy us either that she was mad, or that
robbers were in the house: each person seized something by way of a
weapon: one took a poker, another a candlestick, a third a knife or
fire-shovel, and up stairs we rushed. Only one could go in,
conveniently, abreast; and I was among the first who entered. The
candles had been forgotten; but the moon was rising, and we certainly
saw what, in the opinion of some present, corroborated the statement of
Mary. Two or three instantly drew back in horror, and attempted to
retreat, but others pressed behind; and lights being at length produced,
an exhibition far more ludicrous than terrific presented itself. In a
far corner of the room stood, erect and formal, and _stark naked_ (as a
_ghost_ should be), John Philpot Curran, one of his majesty’s counsel,
learned in the law,—trembling as if in the ague, and scarce able to
utter a syllable, through the combination of cold and terror. Three or
four paces in his front lay Diver, from Newfoundland, stretching out his
immense shaggy carcase, his long paws extended their full length, and
his great head lying on them with his nose pointed toward _the ghost_,
as true as the needle to the pole. His hind legs were gathered up like
those of a wild beast ready to spring upon his prey. He took an angry
notice of the first of us that came near him, growled, and seemed
disposed to resent our intrusion;—but the moment his master appeared,
his temper changed, he jumped up, wagged his tail, licked the parson’s
hand, cast a scowling look at Curran, and then a wistful one at his
master,—as much as to say, “I have done my duty, now do you yours:” he
looked, indeed, as if he only waited for the word of command, to seize
the counsellor by the throttle.
A blanket was now considerately thrown over Curran by one of the
company, and he was _put to bed_ with half a dozen more blankets heaped
upon him: a tumbler of hot potsheen punch was administered, and a second
worked miracles: the natural heat began to circulate, and he was in a
little time enabled to rise and tell us a story which no hermit even
telling his last beads could avoid laughing at. Related by _any one_, it
would have been good; but as told by Curran, with his powers of
description and characteristic humour, was superexcellent;—and we had to
thank Diver, the water-dog, for the highest zest of the whole evening.
The fact was, that a little while previous to dinner-time, Curran, who
had omitted his customary ablution in the morning, went to our allotted
bed-chamber to perform that ceremony; and having stripped, had just
begun to apply the sponge, when Diver, strolling about his master’s
premises to see if all was right, placed by chance his paw against the
door, which not being fastened, it flew open, he entered
unceremoniously, and observing what he conceived to be an extraordinary
and suspicious figure, concluded it was somebody with no very honest
intention, and stopped to reconnoitre. Curran, unaccustomed to so
strange a valet, retreated, while Diver advanced, and very significantly
showed an intention to seize him by the naked throat; which operation,
if performed by Diver, whose tusks were a full inch in length, would no
doubt have admitted an inconvenient quantity of atmospheric air into his
œsophagus. He therefore crept as close into the corner as he could, and
had the equivocal satisfaction of seeing his adversary advance and turn
the meditated _assault_ into a complete _blockade_—stretching himself
out, and “maintaining his position” with scarcely the slightest motion,
till the counsellor was rescued, and the siege raised.
Curran had been in hopes that when Diver had satisfied his _curiosity_
he would retire; and with this impression, spoke kindly to him, but was
answered only by a growl. If Curran repeated his blandishments, Diver
showed his long white tusks;—if he moved his foot, the dog’s hind legs
were in motion. Once or twice Curran raised his hand: but Diver,
considering that as a sort of challenge, rose instantly, and with a low
growl looked significantly at Curran’s windpipe. Curran, therefore,
stood like a _model_, if not much like a marble divinity. In truth,
though somewhat less comely, his features were more expressive than
those of the Apollo Belvidere. Had the circumstance occurred at Athens
to Demosthenes, or in the days of Phidias, it is probable my friend
Curran, and Diver, would have been at this moment exhibited in virgin
marble at Florence or at the Vatican;—and I am quite sure the _subject_
would have been better and more amusing than that of “the dying
gladiator.”