safeguard of justice which Providence has placed in the nature of man.
Such is the imperious dominion with which truth and reason wave their
sceptre over the human intellect, that no solicitation, however
artful--no talent, however commanding--can seduce it from its
allegiance. In proportion to the humility of our submission to its rule,
do we rise into some faint emulation of that ineffable and presiding
Divinity, whose characteristic attribute it is to be coerced and bound
by the inexorable laws of its own nature, so as to be _all-wise_ and
_all-just_ from necessity rather than election. You have seen it in the
learned advocate who has preceded me, most peculiarly and strikingly
illustrated. You have seen _even_ his great talents, perhaps the first
in any country, languishing under a cause too weak to _carry_ him, and
too heavy to be _carried_ by him. He was forced to dismiss his natural
candor and sincerity, and, having no merits in his case, to take refuge
in the dignity of his own manner, the resources of his own ingenuity,
from the overwhelming difficulties with which he was surrounded.
Wretched client! unhappy advocate! what a combination do you form! But
such is the condition of guilt--its commission mean and tremulous--its
defence artificial and insincere--its prosecution candid and simple--its
condemnation dignified and austere. Such has been the defendant's
guilt--such his defence--such shall be my address to you--and such, I
trust, your verdict. The learned counsel has told you that this
unfortunate woman is not to be estimated at forty thousand pounds. Fatal
and unquestionable is the truth of this assertion. Alas! gentlemen, she
is no longer worth anything; faded, fallen, degraded, and disgraced, she
is worth less than nothing! But it is for the honor, the hope, the
expectation, the tenderness, and the comforts that have been blasted by
the defendant, and have fled forever, that you are to remunerate the
plaintiff by the punishment of the defendant. It is not her present
value which you are to weigh; but it is her value at that time when she
sat basking in a husband's love, with the blessing of Heaven on her
head, and its purity in her heart; when she sat amongst her family, and
administered the morality of the parental board. Estimate that past
value--compare it with its present deplorable diminution--and it may
lead you to form some judgment of the severity of the injury, and the
extent of the compensation.
"The learned counsel has told you, you ought to be cautious, because
your verdict cannot be set aside for excess. The assertion is just; but
has he treated you fairly by its application? His cause would not allow
him to be fair; for why is the rule adopted in this single action?
Because, this being peculiarly an injury to the most susceptible of all
human feelings, it leaves the injury of the husband to be ascertained
by the sensibility of the jury, and does not presume to measure the
justice of their determination by the cold and chilly exercise of its
own discretion. In any other action it is easy to calculate. If a
tradesman's arm is cut off, you can measure the loss he has sustained;
but the wound of feeling, and the agony of the heart, cannot be judged
by any standard with which I am acquainted. And you are unfairly dealt
with when you are called on to appreciate the present sufferings of the
husband by the present guilt, delinquency, and degradation of his wife.
As well might you, if called on to give compensation to a man for the
murder of his dearest friend, find the measure of his injury by weighing
the ashes of the dead. But it is not, gentlemen of the jury, by weighing
the ashes of the dead that you would estimate the loss of the survivor.
"The learned counsel has referred you to other cases and other
countries, for instances of moderate verdicts. I can refer you to some
authentic instances of just ones. In the next county, £15,000 against a
subaltern officer. In Travers and Macarthy, £5,000 against a servant.
In Tighe against Jones, £1,000 against a man not worth a shilling.
What, then, ought to be the rule, where rank and power, and wealth and
station, have combined to render the example of his crime more
dangerous--to make his guilt more odious--to make the injury to the
plaintiff more grievous, because more conspicuous? I affect no levelling
familiarity, when I speak of persons in the higher ranks of
society--distinctions of orders are necessary, and I always feel
disposed to treat them with respect--but when it is my duty to speak of
the crimes by which they are degraded, I am not so fastidious as to
shrink from their contact, when to touch them is essential to their
dissection. However, therefore, I should feel on any other occasion, a
disposition to speak of the noble defendant with the respect due to his
station, and perhaps to his qualities, of which he may have many to
redeem him from the odium of this transaction, I cannot so indulge
myself here. I cannot betray my client, to avoid the pain of doing my
duty. I cannot forget that in this action the condition, the conduct,
and circumstances of the parties, are justly and peculiarly the objects
of your consideration. Who, then, are the parties? The plaintiff,
young, amiable, of family and education. Of the generous
disinterestedness of his heart you can form an opinion even from the
evidence of the defendant, that he declined an alliance which would have
added to his fortune and consideration, and which he rejected for an
unportioned union with his present wife--she too, at that time, young,
beautiful and accomplished; and feeling her affection for her husband
increase, in proportion as she remembered the ardor of his love, and the
sincerity of his sacrifice. Look now to the defendant! Can you behold
him without shame and indignation? With what feelings can you regard a
rank that he has so tarnished, and a patent that he has so worse than
cancelled? High in the army--high in the state--the hereditary
counsellor of the King--of wealth incalculable--and to this last I
advert with an indignant and contemptuous satisfaction, because, as the
only instrument of his guilt and shame, it will be the means of his
punishment, and the source of his compensation."
THE SERENADING LOVER.
In the very zenith of Curran's professional career, he was consulted in
a case of extremely novel character, which arose out of the following
circumstances:--
Not many doors from Eden Quay, in Upper Sackville-street, lived a young
lady of very fascinating manners, and whose beauty had attracted
considerable attention wherever she made her appearance. Amongst the
many gentlemen whose hearts she had touched, and whose heads she had
deranged, was one young Englishman, a graduate of Trinity College, and
about as fair a specimen of the reverse of beauty as ever took the chair
at a dinner of the Ugly Fellows' Club. Strange to say, he above all
others was the person on whom she looked with any favor. Men of rank and
fortune had sought her hand--lords and commoners had sought the honor of
an introduction; but no!--none for her but the ugly man! In vain did the
ladies of her acquaintance quiz her about her taste--in vain did her
family remonstrate upon the folly of her conduct, in refusing men of
station for such an individual--no go! none for her but the ugly man!
Her dear papa only seemed to take the affair in a quiet way; not that he
was indifferent about the matter, but he loved her too much to throw
any obstacle in the way of her happiness. Not so, however, with her
brother--a splendid young fellow, whose mortification was intense,
especially as the whole affair was the theme of ridicule among his
fellow-students in Old Trinity. He, though sharing in all the love and
tenderness of the father, could not understand his quiet resignation.
What is it to be thought of that one who was the butt of the
University--one on whom nature had played her fantastic tricks, should
be the person who held the key to his lovely sister's heart? No! the
father might resign himself to his quiet philosophy, but _he_, at least,
would have none of it. It should never be said within the college walls
that he looked tamely on while a farce of this kind was being played
out, especially as some of his most intimate fellow-students, and a
beloved one in particular, took more than a common interest in the
matter.
On a summer morning, in the middle of July, he was coming out of his
hall-door, when the postman handed him two letters, one of which was
directed to his sister. Suspecting the party from whom it came, and that
a knowledge of its contents might lead to some discovery useful to him
in frustrating the writer's designs, he opened it, and found that his
suspicion was correct, and that himself was the object of complaint for
his manner towards him in college; and further, that, as he was about to
leave for England on the following day, and would not return for some
weeks, he would do himself the honor of serenading her at twelve o'clock
that night. After reading the letter, his first thought was to look to
the condition of his horsewhip; but, after a little quiet reflection, he
resolved upon another plan of action.
Breakfast over, he proceeded to the kitchen, summoned all the servants
to his presence, to whom he related the whole story from beginning to
end, and proposed that they should drench him with water when he made
his appearance under the window. But there happened to be among them a
corpulent lady called Betty Devine, who entered a plea of objection to
that mode of proceeding on the ground of "waste of water;" that in
_Edinburgh_, where she had served for seven years, they wouldn't think
of such waste; and that, if the young master would only leave the matter
in _her_ hands, she would _drown_ the musician in a chorus, the like of
which was not to be heard outside the boundaries of bonnie Scotland. To
this proposition on the part of Betty the young gentleman gave a hearty
assent; adding, at the same time, a hope that her want of practice since
she left _Edinburgh_ would be no obstacle to her success. To which Miss
Devine replied, by asking him to name the window out of which she was to
present her _compliments_ to the English minstrel. "As to that, Betty,"
said he, "I leave you to select your own ground; but take care that you
don't miss fire"--an observation which took the stable-boy, Bill Mack,
by the greatest surprise, as, from Betty's powers of administration in
his regard, a _faded_ dark-brown coat the master gave him had been
restored to its original color.
For once in her life-time Betty found herself mistress of her situation,
and having made her arrangements, despatched Bill Mack with an
invitation to some of her sable friends of the Quay to witness the
forthcoming concert at twelve o'clock that night.
Scarcely had the hour arrived, however, when the serenader made his
appearance, dressed in the pink of fashion; and, placing himself under
his lady's window, proceeded to play the guitar in the best style. The
performance hadn't well commenced, when, throwing
"his eye
To her lattice high,"
he beheld a female figure at the two-pair window, which she opened
gently. Then commenced his best efforts in the "art divine." No doubt it
was the lady of his love that was there, about to reward him with
"Nature's choice gifts from above,"
----not the wax artificials of these days, but the _real gems_, which he
hoped to preserve on his passage to England!
That he saw a female figure was but too true: it was Miss Betty Devine,
who had been arranging that portion of her toilet which might endanger
the free exercise of her right arm. This done, Miss Devine stood
forward, and, grasping a certain utensil of more than ordinary
proportions, with one bound, not only "returned its _lining_ on the
night," as Tom Moore says, but also on the head of the devoted
serenader, who was so stunned by Betty's favor, that it was some time
before he realized the nature of the gift. His nasal organ having
settled all doubt in that respect, he made his way from the crowd,
vowing law and vengeance. "What is the matter?" asked a popular
commoner, on his way from the parliament house, to one of the boys of
the Quay; "It's a consart, yer honor, given by Betty de Scotch girl; de
creature's fond o' harmony; and for my part, de tung is stickin' to de
roof of my mout from de fair dint of de corus! I didn't taste a drop
since mornin'. Ay boys, aint ye all dry?" This appeal having met with a
favorable response, the gentlemen of the Quay retired to drink "his
honor's health, and to wash down de music!"
Meanwhile, the next morning the serenading gentleman went in all haste
to his brother-in-law, one of the leading merchants of the city, to whom
he communicated the occurrence of the previous night. He had scarcely
finished, when the merchant took him off to his attorney who, without
further delay, went with them to the residence of Curran, to have his
opinion on the case. When they had finished, Curran at once gave his
opinion. "Gentlemen," said he, "in this country, when we go to see a
friend or acquaintance, all we ever expect is--pot luck!"
* * * * *
Carew O'Dwyer was the first who had the honor of proposing that Curran's
remains should be brought over from England and laid in Glasnevin.
* * * * *
Charles Phillips' first introduction to Curran took place at the Priory,
a country villa about four miles from Dublin. Curran would have no one
to introduce him, but went and took him by the hand.
* * * * *
Lundy Foot, the tobacconist, was on the table, under examination, and,
hesitating to answer--"Lundy, Lundy," said Curran, "that's a poser--a
devil of a pinch."
EMPLOYMENT OF INFORMERS.
"I speak not of the fate of those horrid wretches who have been so often
transferred from the table to the dock, and from the dock to the
pillory; I speak of what your own eyes have seen, day after day, during
the course of this commission, from the box where you are now sitting;
the number of horrid miscreants who avowed, upon their oaths, that they
had come from the seat of government--from the Castle--where they had
been worked upon by the fear of death and the hopes of compensation, to
give evidence against their fellows; that the mild and wholesome
councils of this government are holden over these catacombs of living
death, where the wretch that is buried a man lies till his heart has
time to fester and dissolve, and is then dug up a witness. Is this
fancy, or is it fact? Have you not seen him after his resurrection from
that tomb, after having been dug out of the region of death and
corruption, make his appearance upon the table, the living image of life
and of death, and the supreme arbiter of both? Have you not marked, when
he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his
approach? Have you not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy
of his power, in the undissembled homage of deferential horror? How his
glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body of the
accused, and mark it for the grave, while his voice warned the devoted
wretch of life and death--a death which no innocence can escape, no art
elude, no force resist, no antidote preserve? There was an antidote--a
juror's oath; but even that adamantine chain, which bound the integrity
of man to the throne of eternal justice, is solved and molten in the
breath that issues from the informer's mouth; conscience swings from her
mooring, and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own safety
in the surrender of his victim.--Informers are worshipped in the temple
of justice, even as the devil has been worshipped by pagans and
savages--even so, in this wicked country, is the informer an object of
judicial idolatry--even so is he soothed by the music of human
groans--even so is he placated and incensed by the fumes and by the
blood of human sacrifices."
CURRAN AND THE FARMER.
A farmer attending a fair with a hundred pounds in his pocket, took the
precaution of depositing it in the hands of the landlord of the
public-house at which he stopped. Next day he applied for the money, but
the host affected to know nothing of the business. In this dilemma the
farmer consulted Curran. "Have patience, my friend," said the counsel;
"speak to the landlord civilly, and tell him you are convinced you must
have left your money with some other person. Take a friend with you, and
lodge with him another hundred, and then come to me." The dupe doubted
the advice; but, moved by the authority or rhetoric of the learned
counsel, he at length followed it. "And now, sir," said he to Cumin, "I
don't see as I am to be better off for this, if I get my second hundred
again; but how is that to be done?" "Go and ask him for it when he is
alone," said the counsel. "Ay, sir, but asking won't do, I'ze afraid,
without my witness, at any rate." "Never mind, take my advice," said
Curran; "do as I bid you, and return to me." The farmer did so, and came
back with his hundred, glad at any rate to find that safe again in his
possession. "Now, sir, I suppose I must be content; but I don't see as I
am much better off." "Well, then," said the counsel, "now take your
friend with you, and ask the landlord for the hundred pounds your friend
saw you leave with him." It need not be added, that the wily landlord
found that he had been taken off his guard, whilst the farmer returned
exultingly to thank his counsel, with both hundreds in his pocket.
CURRAN AND THE JUDGE.
Soon after Mr. Curran had been called to the bar, on some statement of
Judge Robinson's, the young counsel observed, that "he had never met the
law, as laid down by his Lordship, in any book in his library." "That
may be, sir," said the Judge; "but I suspect that your library is very
small." Mr. Curran replied, "I find it more instructive, my Lord, to
study good works than to compose bad ones.[1] My books may be few; but
the title-pages give me the writers' names, and my shelf is not
disgraced by any such rank absurdities, that their very authors are
ashamed to own them." "Sir," said the Judge, "you are forgetting the
respect which you owe to the dignity of the judicial character."
"Dignity!" exclaimed Mr. Curran; "My Lord, upon that point I shall cite
you a case from a book of some authority, with which you are, perhaps,
not unacquainted." He then briefly recited the story of Strap, in
_Roderick Random_, who having stripped off his coat to fight, entrusted
it to a bystander. When the battle was over, and he was well beaten, he
turned to resume it, but the man had carried it off. Mr. Curran thus
applied the tale:--"So, my Lord, when the person entrusted with the
dignity of the judgment-seat lays it aside for a moment to enter into a
disgraceful personal contest, it is in vain when he has been worsted in
the encounter that he seeks to resume it--it is in vain that he tries to
shelter himself behind an authority which he has abandoned." "If you say
another word, I'll commit you," replied the angry Judge; to which Mr. C.
retorted, "If your Lordship shall do so, we shall both of us have the
consolation of reflecting, that I am not the worst thing your Lordship
has committed."
CURRAN'S QUARREL WITH FITZGIBBON.
Curran distinguished himself not more as a barrister than as a member of
parliament; and in the latter character it was his misfortune to
provoke the enmity of a man, whose thirst for revenge was only to be
satiated by the utter ruin of his adversary. In the discussion of a bill
of a penal nature, Curran inveighed in strong terms against the
Attorney-General, Fitzgibbon, for _sleeping on the bench_ when statutes
of the most cruel kind were being enacted; and ironically lamented that
the slumber of guilt should so nearly resemble the repose of innocence.
A challenge from Fitzgibbon was the consequence of this sally; and the
parties having met, were to fire when they chose. "I never," said
Curran, when relating the circumstances of the duel,--"I never saw any
one whose determination seemed more malignant than Fitzgibbon's. After I
had fired, he took aim at me for at least half a minute; and on its
proving ineffectual, I could not help exclaiming to him, 'It was not
your fault, Mr. Attorney; you were deliberate enough,'" The
Attorney-General declared his honor satisfied; and here, at least for
the time, the dispute appeared to terminate.
Not here, however, terminated Fitzgibbon's animosity. Soon afterwards,
he became Lord Chancellor, and a peer of Ireland, by the title of Lord
Clare; and in the former capacity he found an opportunity, by means of
his judicial authority, of ungenerously crashing the rising powers and
fortunes of his late antagonist. Curran, who was at this time a leader,
and one of the senior practitioners at the Chancery Bar, soon felt all
the force of his rival's vengeance. The Chancellor is said to have
yielded a reluctant attention to every motion he made; he frequently
stopped him in the middle of a speech, questioned his knowledge of law,
recommended to him more attention to facts, in short, succeeded not only
in crippling all his professional efforts, but actually in leaving him
without a client. Curran, indeed, appeared as usual in the three other
courts [of the "Four Courts" at Dublin]; but he had been already
stripped of his most profitable practice, and as his expenses nearly
kept pace with his gains, he was almost left a beggar, for all hopes of
the wealth and honors of the long-robe were now denied him. The memory
of this persecution embittered the last moments of Curran's existence;
and he could never even allude to it, without evincing a just and
excusable indignation. In a letter which he addressed to a friend,
twenty years after, he says, "I made no compromise with power; I had the
merit of provoking and despising the personal malice of every man in
Ireland who was the known enemy of the country. Without the walls of the
court of justice, my character was pursued with the most persevering
slander; and within those walls, though I was too strong to be beaten
down by any judicial malignity, it was not so with my clients, and my
consequent losses in professional income have never been estimated at
less, as you must have often heard, than £30,000."
HIGH AUTHORITY.
Curran was once engaged in a legal argument; behind him stood his
colleague, a gentleman whose person was remarkably tall and slender, and
who had originally intended to take holy orders. The Judge observing
that the case under discussion involved a question of ecclesiastical
law,--"Then," said Curran, "I can refer your Lordship to a high
authority behind me, who was intended for the church, though in my
opinion he was fitter for the steeple."
USE OF RED TAPE.
Curran, when Master of the Rolls, said to Mr. Grattan, "You would be the
greatest man of your age, Grattan, if you would buy a few yards of red
tape, and tie up your bills and papers."
CURRAN AND THE MASTIFF.
Curran used to relate with infinite humor 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 backwards, might frighten the fiercest dog,
and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt on a miller's
animal in the neighborhood, who _would never let the boys rob the
orchard_; but found to his sorrow that he had a dog to deal with which
did not care what end of a boy went foremost, so that 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 should never go on a steady
perpendicular again." "Upon my word," said Sir Jonah Barrington, to whom
Curran related this story, "the mastiff may have left you your centre,
but he could not have left much gravity behind him, among the
by-standers."
ARTHUR O'LEARY.