decent old woman offer a paper to one of his servants, which the fellow
at first refused in an insolent and surly manner. The woman however
pressed her suit with all the energy of distress, and in the end
prevailed. The dean, whose very soul was compassion, saw, felt, and was
determined to alleviate her misery. He waited most anxiously for the
servant to bring the paper; but to his surprise and indignation, an hour
elapsed, and the man did not present it. The dean again looked out. The
day was cold and wet, and the wretched petitioner still retained her
situation, with many an eloquent and anxious look at the house. The
benevolent divine lost all patience, and was going to ring the bell,
when he observed the servant cross the street, and return the paper with
the utmost _sang froid_ and indifference. The dean could bear no longer;
he threw up the sash, and loudly demanded what the paper contained. "It
is a petition, please your reverence," replied the woman. "Bring it up,
rascal!" cried the enraged dean. The servant, surprised and petrified,
obeyed. With Swift, to know distress was to pity it; to pity to relieve.
The poor woman was instantly made happy, and the servant almost as
instantly turned out of doors, with the following written testimonial of
his conduct. "The bearer lived two years in my service, in which time he
was frequently drunk and negligent of his duty; which, conceiving him to
be honest, I excused; but at last detecting him in a flagrant instance
of cruelty, I discharge him." Such were the consequences of this paper,
that for seven years the fellow was an itinerant beggar; after which the
dean forgave him; and in consequence of another paper equally singular,
he was hired by Mr. Pope, with whom he lived till death removed him.
SWIFT AT THOMASTOWN.
Dean Swift had heard much of the hospitable festivities of Thomastown,
the seat of Mr. Matthew (See Anecdotes of Conviviality), from his friend
Dr. Sheridan, who had been often, a welcome guest, both on account of
his convivial qualities, and as being the preceptor of the nephew of Mr.
Matthew. He, at length, became desirous of ascertaining with his own
eyes, the truth of a report, which he could not forbear considering as
greatly exaggerated. On receiving an intimation of this from Sheridan,
Mr. Matthew wrote a polite letter to the Dean, requesting the honor of a
visit, in company with the doctor, at his next school vacation. They
accordingly set out on horseback, attended by a gentleman who was a near
relation to Mr. Matthew.
They had scarcely reached the inn where they intended to pass the first
night, and which, like most of the Irish inns at that time, afforded but
miserable entertainment, when they were surprised by the arrival of a
coach and six horses, sent to convey them the remainder of the journey
to Thomastown; and at the same time, bringing a supply of the choicest
viands, wines, and other liquors, for their refreshment. Swift was
highly pleased with this uncommon mark of attention paid him; and the
coach proved particularly acceptable, as he had been a good deal
fatigued with his day's journey.
When they came in sight of the house, the Dean, astonished at its
magnitude, cried out, "What, in the name of God, can be the use of such
a vast building?" "Why, Mr. Dean," replied the fellow traveller before
mentioned, "there are no less than forty apartments for guests in that
house, and all of them probably occupied at this time, except what are
reserved for us." Swift, in his usual manner, called out to the
coachman, to stop, and drive him back to Dublin, for he could not think
of mixing with such a crowd. "Well," said he, immediately afterwards,
"there is no remedy, I must submit, but I have lost a fortnight of my
life."
Mr. Mathew received him at the door with uncommon marks of respect; and
then conducting him to his apartments, after some compliments, made his
usual speech, acquainting him with the customs of the house, and
retired, leaving him in possession of his castle. Soon after, the cook
appeared with his bill of fare, to receive his directions about supper;
and the butler at the same time, with a list of wines, and other
liquors. "And is all this really so?" said Swift, "and may I command
here, as in my own house?" His companion assured him he might, and that
nothing could be more agreeable to the owner of the mansion, than that
all under his roof should live comformably to their own inclinations,
without the least restraint. "Well then," said Swift, "I invite you and
Dr. Sheridan to be my guests, while I stay; for I think I shall scarcely
be tempted to mix with the mob below."
Three days were passed in riding over the demesne, and viewing the
various improvements, without ever seeing Mr. Mathew, or any of the
guests; nor were the company below much concerned at the dean's absence,
as his very name usually inspired those who did not know him, with awe;
and they were afraid that his presence would put an end to the ease and
cheerfulness which reigned among them. On the fourth day, Swift entered
the room where the company were assembled before dinner, and addressed
Mr. Mathew, in a strain of the highest compliment, expatiating on all
the beauties of his improvements, with all the skill of an artist, and
with the taste of a connoisseur. Such an address for a man of Swift's
character, could not fail of being pleasing to the owner, who was, at
the same time, the planner of these improvements; and so fine an
eulogium from one, who was supposed to deal more largely in satire, than
panegyric, was likely to remove the prejudice entertained against his
character, and prepossessed the rest of the company in his favor. He
concluded his speech by saying: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I am
come to live among you, and it shall be no fault of mine, if we do not
pass our time agreeably."
In a short time, all restraint on his account disappeared, he entered
readily into all the little schemes for promoting mirth; and every day,
with the assistance of his coadjutor, produced some new one, which
afforded a good deal of sport and merriment. In short, never were such
joyous scenes know at, Thomastown before. When the time came, which
obliged Sheridan to return to his school, the company were so delighted
with the dean, that they earnestly entreated him to remain there some
time longer; and Mr. Mathew himself for once broke through a rule which
he observed, of never soliciting the stay of any guest. Swift found
himself so happy, that he readily yielded to their solicitations; and
instead of a fortnight, passed four months there, much to his
satisfaction, and that of all those who visited the place during that
time.
SWIFT'S LAST LINES.
In one of those lucid intervals which varied the course of Swift's
unhappy lunacy, his guardians or physicians took him out to give him an
airing. When they came to the Phoenix park, Swift remarked a new building
which he had never seen, and asked what it was designed for? Dr.
Kingsbury answered, "That, Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms and
powder, for the security of the city." "Oh! oh!" says the dean, pulling
out his pocket-book, "let me take an item of that. This is worth
remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets--memory, put down
that." He then produced the following lines, being the last he ever
wrote:
Behold! a proof of Irish sense!
Here Irish wit is seen,
When nothing's left for our defence,
We build a magazine.
The Dean then put up his pocket-book, laughing heartily at the conceit,
and clenching it with, "After the steed's stolen, shut the stable
door."
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.
HIS BIRTH
John Philpot Curran was born at Newmarket, a small village in
the county of Cork, on the 24th of July, 1750. His father, James Curran,
was seneschal of the manor, and possessed of a very moderate income. His
mother was a very extraordinary woman. Eloquent and witty, she was the
delight of her neighbors, and their chronicle and arbitress. Her stories
were of the olden time, and made their way to the hearts of the people,
who delighted in her wit and the truly national humor of her character.
Little Curran used to hang with ecstasy upon his mother's accents, used
to repeat her tales and her jests, and caught up her enthusiasm. After
her death, he erected a monument over her remains, upon which the
following memorial was inscribed:--
"Here lieth all that was mortal of Martha Curran--a woman of many
virtues, few foibles, great talents, and no vice. This tablet was
inscribed to her memory by a son who loved her, and whom she loved."
CURRAN AS PUNCH'S MAN.
Curran's first effort in public commenced when a boy in the droll
character of Mr. Punch's man. It occurred in this way: One of the
puppet-shows known as "Punch and Judy," arrived at Newmarket, to the
great gratification of the neighborhood. Young Curran was an attentive
listener at every exhibition of the show. At length, Mr. Punch's man
fell ill, and immediately ruin threatened the establishment. Curran, who
had devoured all the man's eloquence, offered himself to the manager as
Mr. Punch's man. His services were gladly accepted, and his success so
complete, that crowds attended every performance, and Mr. Punch's new
man became the theme of universal panegyric.
CURRAN AT A DEBATING SOCIETY.
Curran's account of his introduction and _debut_ at a debating society,
is the identical "first appearance" of hundreds. "Upon the first of our
assembling," he says, "I attended, my foolish heart throbbing with the
anticipated honor of being styled 'the learned member that opened the
debate,' or 'the very eloquent gentleman who has just sat down.' All day
the coming scene had been flitting before my fancy, and cajoling it. My
ear already caught the glorious melody of 'Hear him! hear him!' Already
I was practising how to steal a sidelong glance at the tears of generous
approbation bubbling in the eyes of my little auditory,--never
suspecting, alas! that a modern eye may have so little affinity with
moisture, that the finest gunpowder may be dried upon it. I stood up; my
mind was stored with about a folio volume of matter; but I wanted a
preface, and for want of a preface, the volume was never published. I
stood up, trembling through every fibre: but remembering that in this I
was but imitating Tully, I took courage, and had actually proceeded
almost as far as 'Mr. Chairman,' when, to my astonishment and terror, I
perceived that every eye was riveted upon me. There were only six or
seven present, and the little room could not have contained as many
more; yet was it, to my panic-stricken imagination, as if I were the
central object in nature, and assembled millions were gazing upon me in
breathless expectation. I became dismayed and dumb. My friends cried
'Hear him!' but there was nothing to hear. My lips, indeed, went through
the pantomime of articulation; but I was like the unfortunate fiddler at
the fair, who, coming to strike up the solo that was to ravish every
ear, discovered that an enemy had maliciously soaped his bow; or rather,
like poor Punch, as I once saw him, grimacing a soliloquy, of which his
prompter had most indiscreetly neglected to administer the words." Such
was the _debut_ of "Stuttering Jack Curran," or "Orator Mum," as he was
waggishly styled; but not many months elapsed ere the sun of his
eloquence burst forth in dazzling splendor.
CURRAN AND THE BANKER.
A Limerick banker, remarkable for his sagacity, had an iron leg. "His
leg," said Curran "is the _softest_ part about him."
HIS DUEL WITH ST. LEGER.
Curran was employed at Cork to prosecute a British officer of the name
of St. Leger, for an assault upon a Catholic clergyman. St. Leger was
suspected by Curran to be a creature of Lord Doneraile, and to have
acted under the influence of his lordship's religious prejudice. Curran
rated him soundly on this, and with such effect that St. Leger sent him
a challenge the next day. They met, but as Curran did not return his
fire, the affair ended. "It was not necessary," said Curran, "for me to
fire at him, for he died in three weeks after the duel, of the _report
of his own pistol_."
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW.
This was the name of a club that met on every Saturday during term in a
house in Kevin-street, and had for its members Curran, Grattan, Flood,
Father O'Leary, Lord Charlemont, Judge Day, Judge Metge, Judge
Chamberlaine, Lord Avonmore, Bowes Daly, George Ogle, and Mr. Keller.
Curran, being Grand Prior of the order, composed the charter song as
follows:--
When Saint Patrick our order created,
And called us the Monks of the Screw,
Good rules he revealed to our Abbot,
To guide us in what we should do.
But first he replenished his fountain
With liquor the best in the sky:
And he swore by the word of his saintship
That fountain should never run dry.
My children, be chaste till you're tempted--
While sober, be wise and discreet--
And humble your bodies with fasting,
Whene'er you've got nothing to eat.
Then be not a glass in the convent,
Except on a festival, found--
And this rule to enforce, I ordain it
A festival--_all the year round_.
LORD AVONMORE.
Curran was often annoyed when pleading before Lord Avonmore, owing to
his lordship's habit of being influenced by first impressions. He and
Curran were to dine together at the house of a friend, and the
opportunity was seized by Curran to cure his lordship's habit of
anticipating.
"Why, Mr. Curran, you have kept us a full hour waiting dinner for you,"
grumbled out Lord Avonmore. "Oh, my dear Lord, I regret it much; you
must know it seldom happens, but--I've just been witness to a most
melancholy occurrence." "My God! you seem terribly moved by it--take a
glass of wine. What was it?--what was it?"--"I will tell you, my Lord,
the moment I can collect myself. I had been detained at Court--in the
Court of Chancery--your Lordship knows the Chancellor sits late." "I do,
I do--but _go on_."--"Well, my Lord, I was hurrying here as fast as ever
I could--I did not even change my dress--I hope I shall be excused for
coming in my boots?" "Poh, poh--never mind your boots: the point--come
at once to the point of the story."--"Oh--I will, my good Lord, in a
moment. I walked here--I would not even wait to get the carriage
ready--it would have taken time, you know. Now there is a market exactly
in the road by which I had to pass--your Lordship may perhaps recollect
the market--do you?" "To be sure I do--_go on_, Curran--_go on_ with the
story."--"I am very glad your Lordship remembers the market, for I
totally forget the name of it--the name--the name--" "What the devil
signifies the name of it, sir?--it's the Castle Market."--"Your Lordship
is perfectly right--it is called the Castle Market. Well, I was passing
through that very identical Castle Market, when I observed a butcher
preparing to kill a calf. He had a huge knife in his hand--it was as
sharp as a razor. The calf was standing beside him--he drew the knife to
plunge it into the animal. Just as he was in the act of doing so, a
little boy about four years old--his only son--the loveliest little baby
I ever saw, ran suddenly across his path, and he killed--oh, my God! he
killed--" "The child! the child! the child!" vociferated Lord Avonmore.
"No, my Lord, _the calf_," continued Curran, very coolly; "he killed the
calf, but--_your Lordship is in the habit of anticipating_."
HIS FIRST CLIENT.
When Curran was called to the bar, he was without friends, without
connections, without fortune, conscious of talents far above the mob by
which he was elbowed, and cursed with sensibility, which rendered him
painfully alive to the mortifications he was fated to experience. Those
who have risen to professional eminence, and recollect the impediments
of such a commencement--the neglect abroad--the poverty, perhaps, at
home--the frowns of rivalry--the fears of friendship--the sneer at the
first essay--the prophecy that it will be the last--discouragement as
to the present--forebodings as to the future--some who are established
endeavoring to crush the chance of competition, and some who have failed
anxious for the wretched consolation of companionship--those who
recollect the comforts of such an apprenticeship may duly appreciate
poor Curran's situation. After toiling for a very inadequate recompense
at the Sessions of Cork, and wearing, as he said himself, his teeth
almost to their stumps, he proceeded to the metropolis, taking for his
wife and young children a miserable lodging on Hog-hill. Term after
term, without either profit or professional reputation, he paced the
hall of the Four Courts. Yet even thus he was not altogether
undistinguished. If his pocket was not heavy, his heart was light--he
was young and ardent, buoyed up not less by the consciousness of what he
felt within, than by the encouraging comparison with those who were
successful around him, and his station among the crowd of idlers, whom
he amused with his wit or amused by his eloquence. Many even who had
emerged from that crowd, did not disdain occasionally to glean from his
conversation the rich and varied treasures which he did not fail to
squander with the most unsparing prodigality; and some there were who
observed the brightness of the infant luminary struggling through the
obscurity that clouded its commencement. Among those who had the
discrimination to appreciate, and the heart to feel for him, luckily for
Curran, was Mr. Arthur Wolfe, afterwards the unfortunate, but respected
Lord Kilwarden. The first fee of any consequence that he received was
through his recommendation; and his recital of the incident cannot be
without its interest to the young professional aspirant whom a temporary
neglect may have sunk into dejection. "I then lived," said he, "upon
Hog-hill; my wife and children were the chief furniture of my
apartments; and as to my rent, it stood much the same chance of its
liquidation with the national debt. Mrs. Curran, however, was a
barrister's lady, and what was wanting in wealth, she was well
determined should be supplied by dignity. The landlady, on the other
hand, had no idea of any other gradation except that of pounds,
shillings, and pence. I walked out one morning in order to avoid the
perpetual altercations on the subject, with my mind, you may imagine, in
no very enviable temperament. I fell into gloom, to which from my
infancy I had been occasionally subject. I had a family for whom I had
no dinner, and a landlady for whom I had no rent. I had gone abroad in
despondence--I returned home almost in desperation. When I opened the
door of my study, where _Lavater_ alone could have found a library, the
first object that presented itself was an immense folio of a brief,
twenty golden guineas wrapped up beside it, and the name of _Old Bob
Lyons_ marked on the back of it. I paid my landlady--bought a good
dinner--gave Bob Lyons a share of it; and that dinner was the date of my
prosperity!"
CURRAN AND THE INFORMER.
The following is an extract from Curran's speech delivered before a
committee of the house of Lords, against the Bill of attainder on Lord
Edward's property:--
"I have been asked," said he, "by the committee, whether I have any
defensive evidence? I am confounded by such a question. Where is there a
possibility of obtaining defensive evidence? Where am I to seek it? I
have often, of late, gone to the dungeon of the captive, but never have
I gone to the grave of the dead, to receive instructions for his
defence; nor, in truth, have I ever before been at the trial of a dead
man! I offer, therefore, no evidence upon this inquiry, against the
perilous example of which I do protest on behalf of the public, and
against the cruelty and inhumanity and injustice of which I do protest
in the name of the dead father, whose memory is sought to be dishonored,
and of his infant orphans, whose bread is sought to be taken away. Some
observations, and but a few, upon the evidence of the informer I will
make. I do believe all he has admitted respecting himself. I do verily
believe him in that instance, even though I heard him assert it upon his
oath--by his own confession an informer, and a bribed informer--a man
whom respectable witnesses had sworn in a court of justice, upon their
oaths, not to be credible on his oath--a man upon whose single testimony
no jury ever did, or ever ought to pronounce a verdict of guilty--a kind
of man to whom the law resorts with abhorrence, and from necessity, in
order to set the criminal against the crime, but who is made use of for
the same reason that the most obnoxious poisons are resorted to in
medicine. If such be the man, look for a moment at his story. He
confines himself to mere conversation only, with a dead man! He ventures
not to introduce any third person, living or even dead! he ventures to
state no act whatever done. He wishes, indeed, to asperse the conduct of
Lady Edward Fitzgerald; but he well knew that, even were she in this
country, she could not be called as a witness to contradict him. See
therefore, if there be any one assertion to which credit can be given,
except this--that he has sworn and forsworn--that he is a traitor--that
he has received five hundred guineas to be an informer, and that his
general reputation is, to be utterly unworthy of credit."
He concludes thus:--"Every act of this sort ought to have a practical
morality flowing from its principle. If loyalty and justice require that
those children should be deprived of bread, must it not be a violation
of that principle to give them food or shelter? Must not every loyal and
just man wish to see them, in the words of the famous Golden Bull,
'always poor and necessitous, and for ever accompanied by the infamy of
the father, languishing in continued indigence, and finding their
punishment in living, and their relief in dying?' If the widowed mother
should carry the orphan heir of her unfortunate husband to the gate of
any man who himself touched with the sad vicissitude of human affairs,
might feel a compassionate reverence for the noble blood that flowed in
his veins, nobler than the royalty that first ennobled it, that, like a
rich stream, rose till it ran and hid its fountain--if, remembering the
many noble qualities of his unfortunate father, his heart melted over
the calamities of the child--if his heart swelled, if his eyes
overflowed, if his too precipitate hand was stretched forth by his pity
or his gratitude to the excommunicated sufferers, how could he justify
the rebel tear or the traitorous humanity? One word more and I have
done. I once more earnestly and solemnly conjure you to reflect that the
fact--I mean the fact of guilt or innocence which must be the foundation
of this bill--is not now, after the death of the party, capable of being
tried, consistent with the liberty of a free people, or the unalterable
rules of eternal justice; and that as to the forfeiture and the ignominy
which it enacts, that only can be punishment which lights upon guilt,
and that can be only vengeance which breaks upon innocence."
* * * * *
Curran was one day setting his watch at the Post Office, which was then
opposite the late Parliament House, when a noble member of the House of
Lords said to him, "Curran, what do they mean to do with that useless
building? For my part, I am sure I hate even the sight of it." "I do not
wonder at it, my lord," replied Curran contemptuously; "I never yet
heard of a _murderer_ who was not afraid of a _ghost_."
LORD CLARE.
One day when it was known that Curran had to make an elaborate argument
in Chancery, Lord Clare brought a large Newfoundland dog upon the bench
with him, and during the progress of the argument he lent his ear much
more to the dog than to the barrister. This was observed at length by
the entire profession. In time the Chancellor lost all regard for
decency; he turned himself quite aside in the most material part of the
case, and began in full court to fondle the animal. Curran stopped at
once. "Go on, go on, Mr. Curran," said Lord Clare. "Oh! I beg a
thousand pardons, my Lord; I really took it for granted that your
Lordship was _employed in consultation_."
CURRAN'S ELOQUENCE.
In a debate on attachments in the Irish House of Commons, in 1785, Mr.
Curran rose to speak against them; and perceiving Mr. Fitzgibbon, the
attorney-general (afterwards Lord Clare), had fallen asleep on his seat,
he thus commenced:--"I hope I may say a few words on this great subject,
without disturbing the sleep of any right honorable member; and yet,
perhaps, I ought rather to envy than blame the tranquility of the right
honorable gentleman. I do not feel myself so happily tempered, as to be
lulled to repose by the storms that shake the land. If they invited any
to rest, that rest ought not to be lavished on the guilty spirit."
Although Mr. Curran appears here to have commenced hostilities, it
should be mentioned, that he was apprised of Mr. Fitzgibbon's having
given out in the ministerial circles that he would take an opportunity
during the debate, in which he knew that Mr. Curran would take a part,
of _putting down the young patriot_. The Duchess of Rutland, and all the
ladies of the castle were present in the gallery, to witness what Mr.
Curran called, in the course of the debate, "this exhibition by
command."