Wit distinguished from ribaldry—Chief Baron Yelverton and Mr.
Curran—Chief Justice Clonmell—Lord Norbury’s comprehensive powers—Sir
Hercules Langreish, and his digressions in claret-drinking—Gervoise
Parker Bushe, Chief Baron Burgh, &c.—Peculiar traits of Irish
convivial society in the author’s day—Jeremiah Keller—Lord Clare’s
funeral—A scanty fee—The Pope and Pretender—Counsellor Norcott’s
talent of mimickry—Ballinlaw ferry—Cæsar Colclough, of Duffry Hall,
and Julius Cæsar.
There is no intellectual faculty so difficult to define, or of which
there are so many degrees and gradations, as _wit_. Humour may be termed
a sort of _table d’hôte_, whereat wit and ribaldry sometimes mingle.
Certain eminent countrymen of mine possessed these various
conversational qualities in great perfection, and often called them into
action at the same sitting. Among them, Mr. Curran and Chief Baron
Yelverton were most conspicuous; but the flow of their _bonhomie_ was
subject to many contingencies. It is worthy notice, that all the Irish
judges of those days who could conjure up a single joke, affected _wit_.
Lord Clonmell, chief justice, was but clumsy at repartee, though an
efficient humourist. He seldom rose above _anecdotes_, but these he
_acted_ whilst he told them. He had the peculiar advantage of knowing
mankind well, and suiting his speech to the ears of his company. Lord
Norbury had witticisms, puns, _jeux-d’esprit_—in short, jokes of all
kinds, constantly at hand. His impromptus were sometimes excellent, but
occasionally failed;—he made, however, more _hits_ than any one of his
contemporaries. Nobody, it is true, minded much what he said:—if it was
good, they laughed heartily; if bad, it was only a _Norbury_;—and so, by
an indefatigable practice of _squibbing_, it is not wonderful that,
during a life of eighty years, he should have uttered many _good
things_—though, oddly enough, few of them are preserved.
Lord Norbury sang extremely well.—On my first circuit as counsel, in
1787, he went as judge, and I have often heard him warble “Black-eyed
Susan” and “Admiral Benbow,” as well as parts in divers glees and
catches, most agreeably.—Requiescat in pace!
Sir Hercules Langreish, a commissioner of revenue, and one of the most
popular _courtiers_ of our society, had an abundance of slow,
kind-hearted, though methodistically pronounced, repartee. (A living
friend of mine in high rank has much more wit than Sir Hercules; but
there is less philanthropy about it). I have heretofore mentioned his
_retort courteous_ to Mr. Dundas, and will now give another specimen:—He
was surprised one evening at his house in Stephen’s Green, by Sir John
Parnell, Duigenan, and myself, who went to him on an immaterial matter
of revenue business. We found him in his study alone, poring over the
national accounts, with two claret bottles empty before him and a third
bottle on the wane; it was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the
butler, according to general orders when gentlemen came in, brought a
bottle of claret to each of us. “Why,” said Parnell, “Sir Heck, you have
emptied _two bottles_ already.” “True,” said Sir Hercules. “And had you
nobody to help you?” “_O yes_, I had that bottle of _port_ there, and I
assure you he afforded me very great assistance!”
Gervoise Parker Bushe could boast of wit enough for a member of
parliament, and more than enough for a commissioner of the revenue. An
eminent relative of his, now living, possesses the finest specimen I
know at present of the smooth, classical species.
I never knew two distinguished individuals approach each other so nearly
in many respects as the late Chief Baron Hussy Burgh and the personage
who now presides over the first law court of Ireland. In some points, it
is true, they differed:—the former was proud, the latter affable. The
eloquence of the former was more highly polished, more classical and
effective; that of the latter, more simple, more familiar, yet decided.
When very young, I was fascinated by the eloquence of the
_silver-tongued_ orator (as he was then called), and sought every
possible opportunity of hearing him both at the bar and in the House of
Commons. His was the purest declamation I have ever listened to; and
when he made an instrument of his wit, it was pointed and acute. He was
a miscellaneous poet, and wrote epigrams (several upon Lord Aldborough),
which were extremely severe, but at the same time extremely humorous.
It would be almost impossible to enumerate the wits and humourists of
Ireland in my early days. Wit was then regularly _cultivated_ as an
accomplishment, and was, in a greater or less degree, to be found in
every society. Those whom nature had not blessed with that faculty (if a
blessing it is) still did their very best—as a foreigner sports his
broken English.
The convivial circles of the higher orders of Irish society, in fact,
down to the year 1800, in point of wit, pleasantry, good temper, and
friendly feeling, were pre-eminent; while the plentiful luxuries of the
table, and rich furniture of the wine-cellar, were never surpassed, if
equalled, among the gentry of any country. But every thing is now
changed; that class of society is no more; neither men nor manners are
the same; and even the looking back at those times affords a man who
participated in their pleasures higher gratification than do the actual
enjoyments of the passing era.
People may say this change is in myself: perhaps so: yet I think that if
it were possible for an old man still to preserve unimpaired all the
sensations of youth, he would, were he a gentleman, be of my way of
thinking. As for those of my contemporaries who survive, and who lived
in the same circles with myself, I have no doubt they are unanimously of
my opinion. I had very lately an opportunity of seeing this powerfully
exemplified by a noble lord at my house. Good fortune had attended him
throughout life; always respected and beloved, he had at length become
wealthy. When we talked over the days we had spent in our own country,
his eyes filled, and he confessed to me his bitter repentance as to _the
Union_.
The members of the Irish bar were then collectively the best
home-educated persons in Ireland, the elder sons of respectable families
being almost uniformly called to that profession. Among them,
nevertheless, were some of humbler origin. Jeremiah Keller was such;—but
his talent sufficed to elevate him. He had the rare faculty of dressing
up the _severest_ satire in the garb of pleasantry—a faculty, by the
bye, which makes no friends, and often deepens and fixes animosity.
Keller was a good man, generally liked, and popular with a considerable
portion of his profession. But though not rich, he occasionally
exercised an independence of mind and manners which gave great distaste
to the pride and arrogance of some of the leading authorities. Lord
Clare could not endure him, and never missed an opportunity of showing
or affecting to show his contempt for Jerry.
Lord Clare having died _of the Union_ and the _Duke of Bedford_, it was
proposed by his led captains and partizans, that the bar, in a body,
should attend his funeral procession. But as his Lordship had made so
many inveterate foes at the bar, by taking pains to prove himself
_their_ foe, it was thought necessary to _canvass_ the profession
individually, and ascertain who among them would _object_ to attend.
Very few did;—not that they cherished any personal respect for Lord
Clare, but wished to compliment the remains of the first Irish
chancellor. As Keller was known to be obstinate as well as virulent, it
was held desirable to conciliate him if possible—though they anticipated
the certainty of a direct refusal.
The deputation accordingly called on him: “You know, my dear fellow,”
said Arthur Chichester M‘Courtney, who had been deputed as spokesman
(beating about the bush), “that Lord Clare is to be buried to-morrow?”
“’Tis generally the last thing done with dead chancellors,” said Keller
coolly.
“He’ll be buried in St. Peter’s,” said the spokesman.
“Then he’s going to a friend of the family,” said Keller. “His father
was a papist.”[43]
-----
Footnote 43:
Old Counsellor Fitzgibbon, Lord Clare’s father, was born a Roman
Catholic, and educated for a priest. His good sense, however, opened
his eyes to his own intellectual abilities; and he determined to get,
if possible, to the bar—that sure source of promotion for reasoning
talent. But when or where (if ever) he renounced the Romish church, I
am ignorant. He acquired great and just eminence as a barrister, and
made a large fortune. Lord Clare was born his second son. Mrs.
Jeffries (his sister) I knew well, and I cannot pass her by here
without saying, that whatever faults she had, her female correctness
was unquestioned; and throughout my life I have never met a
kinder-hearted being than Mrs. Jeffries, or a fairer though a decided
enemy. Old Mr. Fitzgibbon loved to make money, and in his day it was
not the habit for lawyers to spend it. They used to tell a story of
him respecting a certain client who brought his own brief and fee,
that he might personally apologise for the smallness of the latter.
Fitzgibbon, on receiving the fee, looked rather discontented. “I
assure you, Counsellor,” said the client (mournfully), “I am ashamed
of its smallness; but in fact it is all I have in the world.” “Oh!
then,” said Fitzgibbon, “you can do no more:—as it’s ‘all you have in
the world,’—why—hem!—I must—_take it!_”
-----
This created a laugh disconcerting to the deputation;—however, for fear
of worse, the grand question was then put. “My dear Keller,” said the
spokesman, “the bar mean to go in procession; have you any objection to
attend Lord Clare’s funeral?”
“None at all,” said Keller, “none at all! I shall certainly attend his
_funeral_ with the _greatest pleasure imaginable_!”
Examples of Keller’s dry species of wit in fact daily occurred; it was
always pungent, and generally well-timed. In the year 1798 flourished
Sir Judkin Fitzgerald, Bart., a barrister whose loyal cruelties in the
county of Tipperary were made the subject of a _post facto_ indemnity
bill by Lord Castlereagh, to save him from punishment. Among other
pastimes, he caused cats-o’-nine-tails to be soaked in _brine_, that the
peasantry and every body else at whom he durst have a fling might be
better cut, and remember it the longer. Bragging to Keller of his
numerous ultra-loyal achievements, this man said, “You must own, Keller,
at least, that I preserved the county of Tipperary.”
“Ay, and you _pickled_ it into the bargain!” said Keller: “you promise
to make so good a body confectioner, that I dare say the lord-lieutenant
will hire you;” and in fact Sir Judkin was soon afterward put in office
at the castle.
The unfortunate Counsellor Norcott, heretofore mentioned in these
sketches, was a fat, full-faced, portly-looking person. He had a
smirking countenance, and a swaggering air; was an excellent _bon
vivant_, a remarkably good mimic, and affected to be witty.
Speaking of the Catholics in the hall of the Four Courts, Keller seemed
to insinuate that Norcott was favourable to their emancipation.
“What!” said Norcott, with a great show of pomposity—“what! Pray,
Keller, do you see any thing that smacks of the _Pope_ about me?”
“I don’t know,” replied Keller; “but at all events there is a great deal
of the _Pretender_, and I always understood them to travel in company.”
This was a kind of caustic wit which was not much cultivated in the
higher convivial societies of that day, the members whereof used a more
cordial species. But such sallies were always _repeated_ with great glee
when they did not affect the person who repeated them.
Norcott’s mimickry was complete. This is a disagreeable and dangerous,
because generally an _offensive_ faculty. The foibles, absurdities, or
personal defects of mankind are thus caricatured, and the nearer
perfection the mimickry, the more annoying to the mimicked. Done in a
man’s presence, it amounts to a personal insult; in his absence, it is
dramatic backbiting,—a bad quality in every point of view to cultivate,
and such a weapon of ill-nature as every body should assist in blunting.
In a company where the late Lord Chief Baron Avonmore was a guest,
Norcott was called on to show his imitative powers. He did so with great
effect, taking off particularly well the peculiarities of the judges;
and when he had finished, Lord Avonmore said, with point, but
good-humour, “Upon my word, Norcott, as you so ably exposed the
absurdities of _eleven_ of the judges, I think you did not act fairly by
us in not giving also the _twelfth_ of them” (his lordship’s
self).—Norcott did not utter a word more during the evening.
It is very singular, that a man with such a surplus of wit as Curran,
never could write a good epigram—nor, with such an emporium of language,
compose a pamphlet or essay that would pay for the printing; while a
very eminent living friend of mine, high in the world—though not
Curran’s equal in either qualities—has written some of the most
agreeable and classic _jeux d’esprits_, of the most witty and humorous
papers, and most effective pamphlets, that have issued from the pen of
any member of his profession during my time. I had collected as many as
I could of this gentleman’s productions and sayings (several printed and
a few in manuscript); but, unfortunately, the whole was lost in a trunk
of mine, (with a great number of my books and private papers and
memoranda,) in 1812. I can scarce attempt to recollect any of them, save
one or two, which may give some idea, but nothing more, of the agreeable
playfulness of this gentleman’s fancy. They have been long recorded by
the Irish bar; and some of the English bar, who are not at present
celebrated for their own impromptus or witticisms, and are too _wise_
and _steady_ to _understand_ those of Ireland (unless in print and after
due consideration), may be amused by reading and unriddling an Irish
epigram, sent into the world by an English bookseller.[44]
-----
Footnote 44:
An English gentleman once said to me very seriously, that he always
preferred a London edition of an Irish book, as he thought, somehow or
other, it helped to _take out the brogue_.
-----
A placard having been posted in the courts of law in Dublin by a
bookseller for the sale of _Bibles_, the gentleman I allude to wrote
instantly under it with his pencil—
How clear is the case,
He’s mistaken the place,
His books of devotion to sell:
He should learn, once for all,
That he’ll never get call
For the sale of his _Bibles_ in _hell_.
Had the above _jeu d’esprit_ been the impromptu of a beaten client, he
would have got great credit for it; and in truth, I think, after a year
or two of litigation in a court of justice, most clients would freely
subscribe their names to the concluding epithet.
Another _jeu d’esprit_ I remember, and so no doubt do all the bar of my
standing who have any recollection left,—of whom, however, there is, I
fancy, no great number.
There is a very broad and boisterous ferry between the counties of
Wicklow and Wexford, called Ballinlaw, which the Leinster bar, on
circuit, were obliged to cross in a bad boat. At times the wind was
extremely violent between the hills, the waters high, and the passage
dangerous;—yet the _briefs_ were at the other side; and many a nervous
barrister, who on a simple journey would have rode a high-trotting horse
fifty miles round-about rather than cross Ballinlaw when the waves were
in an angry humour, yet, being sure that there was a golden mine, and a
phalanx of attorneys brandishing their white briefs on the opposite
shore—commending himself to Divine Providence, and flinging his
saddle-bags into the boat—has stepped in after them; and if he had any
prayers or curses by heart, now and then pronounced a fragment of such
in rotation as were most familiar to him, on launching into an element
which he never drank and had a rooted aversion to be upset in.
The curious colloquy of a boatman, on one of those boisterous passages,
with Counsellor Cæsar Colclough, once amused such of the passengers as
had not the fear of death before their eyes.
Cæsar Colclough of Duffry Hall, a very eccentric, quiet character, not
overwise, (he was afterward Chief Justice of Newfoundland,) was in the
boat during a storm. Getting nervous, he could not restrain his piety,
and began to lisp out, “O Lord!—O Lord!” breathing an ardent prayer that
he might once more see his own house, Duffry Hall, in safety, and taste
a sweet barn-door fowl or duck, of which he had fine breeds.
“Arrah! Counsellor,” said the boatman, “don’t be going on praying _that
side_, if you plase; sure it’s the _other lad_ you ought to be praying
to.”
“What _lad_ do you mean?” said Colclough with alarm.
“What lad! why, Counsellor, the old people always say, that the _devil_
takes care of his _own_; and if you don’t vex him by praying the _other
way_, I really think, Counsellor, we have a pretty _safe_ cargo aboard
at this present passage.”
The friend I alluded to, whose wit and pencil were always ready,
immediately placed Cæsar in a much more classical point of view. Though
he made him a downright idolater, yet he put him on a level with a
mighty hero, or emperor—writing upon the back of a letter thus:
While meaner souls the tempest kept in awe,
Intrepid Colclough, crossing Ballinlaw,
Cried to the sailors (shivering in their rags)
You carry _Cæsar_ and his _saddle-bags_!
Little did Julius Cæsar foresee before the birth of Christ that the
first man at the Irish bar would, near two thousand years afterward,
call to mind his exploits in Gaul on the waves of Ballinlaw, in the
roaring of a hurricane. Should I meet him hereafter, I shall certainly
tell him the anecdote.