Sketch of the character of Mr. Hamilton Rowan—His Quixotic spirit of
philanthropy—Case of Mary Neil taken up by Mr. Rowan—Dinner-club among
the briefless barristers of Dublin—Apparition of Mr. Hamilton Rowan
and his dog—More frightened than hurt—An unanswerable query—Mr.
Rowan’s subsequent adventures—The Rev. Mr. Jackson—He is brought up to
receive sentence for high-treason, and expires in Court.
There were few persons whose history was connected with that of Ireland
during my time, who excited my interest in a greater degree than Mr.
Hamilton Rowan. Points of this gentleman’s character have been
unfavourably represented by persons who knew little or nothing of his
life, and that too, long after he had ceased to be a politician. I may
claim perfect disinterestedness when I state that I never had the least
social intercourse with Mr. Rowan, whose line of politics was decidedly
opposed to my own.
Archibald Hamilton Rowan (I believe he still lives) is a gentleman of
most respectable family and of ample fortune: considered merely as a
private character, I fancy there are few who will not give him full
credit for every quality which does honour to his station in society. As
a philanthropist, he certainly carried his ideas even beyond reason, and
to a degree of excess which I really think laid in his mind the
foundation of all his enthusiastic proceedings, both in common life and
in politics.
The first interview I had with this gentleman did not occupy more than a
few minutes; but it was of a most impressive nature, and though now
nearly forty years back, appears as fresh to my eye as if it took place
yesterday: in truth, I believe it must be equally present to every
individual of the company who survives, and is not too old to remember
any thing.
There is generally in every metropolis some temporary incident which
serves as a common subject of conversation; something which _nominally_
excites interest, but which in fact nobody cares a _sous_ about, though
for the day it sells all the newspapers, and gives employment to every
tongue, till some new occurrence happens to work up curiosity and change
the topic.
In 1788, a very young girl, of the name of Mary Neil, had been
ill-treated by a person unknown, aided by a woman. The late Lord
Carhampton was reported to be the transgressor, but without any proof
whatsoever of his Lordship’s culpability. The humour of Hamilton Rowan,
which had a sort of Quixotic tendency to resist all oppression and to
redress every species of wrong, led him to take up the cause of Mary
Neil with a zeal and enthusiastic perseverance which nobody but the
knight of La Mancha could have exceeded. Day and night the ill-treatment
of this girl was the subject of his thoughts, his actions, his dreams:
he even went about preaching a kind of crusade in her favour, and
succeeded in gaining a great many partisans among the citizens; and, in
short, he eventually obtained a legal _conviction_ of the woman as
accessory to a crime, the _perpetrator_ whereof remained undiscovered,
and she accordingly received, and most justly, sentence of death. Still
Mary Neil was not bettered by this conviction: she was utterly
unprovided for, had suffered much, and was quite wretched. Yet there
were not wanting persons who doubted her truth, decried her former
character, and represented her story as that of an impostor: this,
though not credited, not only hurt the feelings and philanthropy, but
the pride of Hamilton Rowan; and he vowed personal vengeance against all
her calumniators, high and low.
At this time about twenty young barristers, including myself, had formed
a dinner-club in Dublin: we had taken large apartments for the purpose;
and, as we were not yet troubled with _too much_ business, were in the
habit of faring luxuriously every day, and taking a bottle of the best
claret which could be obtained.[18]
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Footnote 18:
One of us, Counsellor Townley Fitgate, (afterwards chairman of Wicklow
County,) having a pleasure-cutter of his own in the harbour of Dublin,
used to send her to smuggle claret for us from the Isle of Man: he
made a friend of one of the tide-waiters, and we consequently had the
very best wines on the cheapest possible terms.
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There never existed a more cheerful, witty, nor half so cheap a
dinner-club. One day, whilst dining with our usual hilarity, the servant
informed us that a gentleman below stairs desired to be admitted _for a
moment_. We considered it to be some brother-barrister who requested
permission to join our party, and desired him to be shown up. What was
our surprise, however, on perceiving the figure that presented itself!—a
man, who might have served as a model for a Hercules, his gigantic limbs
conveying the idea of almost supernatural strength: his shoulders, arms,
and broad chest, were the very emblems of muscular energy; and his flat,
rough countenance, overshadowed by enormous dark eyebrows, and deeply
furrowed by strong lines of vigour and fortitude, completed one of the
finest, yet most formidable figures I had ever beheld. He was very well
dressed: close by his side stalked in a baggy Newfoundland dog of
corresponding magnitude, with hair a foot long, and who, if he should be
voraciously inclined, seemed well able to devour a barrister or two
without overcharging his stomach:—as he entered, indeed, he alternately
looked at us and then up at his master, as if only awaiting the orders
of the latter to commence the “onslaught.” His master held in his hand a
large, yellow, knotted club, slung by a leathern thong round his great
wrist: he had also a long small-sword by his side, adorned by a purple
ribbon.
This apparition walked deliberately up to the table; and having made his
obeisance with seeming courtesy, a short pause ensued, during which he
looked round on all the company with an aspect, if not stern, yet
ill-calculated to set our minds at ease either as to _his_ or _his
dog’s_ ulterior intentions.
“Gentlemen!” at length he said, in a tone and with an air at once so
mild and courteous, nay, so polished, as fairly to give the lie, as it
were, to his gigantic and threatening figure: “Gentlemen! I have heard
with very great regret that some members of this club have been so
indiscreet as to calumniate the character of Mary Neil, which, from the
part I have taken, I feel identified with my own: if any gentleman
present hath done so, I doubt not he will now have the candour and
courage to avow it.—_Who_ avows it?” The dog looked up at him again: he
returned the glance; but contented himself, for the present, with
patting the animal’s head, and was silent: so were we. He repeated,
“_Who_ avows it?”
The extreme surprise indeed with which our party was seized, bordering
almost on consternation, rendered all _consultation_ as to a reply out
of the question; and never did I see the old axiom, that “what is every
body’s business is nobody’s business,” more thoroughly exemplified. A
few of the company whispered each his neighbour, and I perceived one or
two steal a fruit-knife under the table-cloth, in case of extremities;
but no one made any reply. We were eighteen in number; and as neither
would or could answer for the others, it would require eighteen replies
to satisfy the giant’s single query; and I fancy some of us _could not_
have replied to his satisfaction, and stuck to the truth into the
bargain.
He repeated his demand (elevating his tone each time) thrice: “Does any
gentleman avow it?” A faint buzz now circulated round the room, but
there was no _answer_ whatsoever. Communication was cut off, and there
was a dead silence: at length our visitor said, with a loud voice, that
he must suppose, _if_ any _gentleman_ had made observations or
assertions against Mary Neil’s character, he would have had the
_courage_ and spirit to avow it: “therefore,” continued he, “I shall
take it for granted that my information was erroneous; and, in that
point of view, I regret having _alarmed_ your society.” And, without
another word, he bowed three times very low, and retired backward toward
the door, (his dog also backing out with equal politeness,) where, with
a parting salute doubly ceremonious, Mr. Rowan ended this extraordinary
interview. On the first of his departing bows, by a simultaneous
impulse, we all rose and returned his compliments, almost touching the
table with our noses, but still in profound silence; which bowing on
both sides was repeated, as I have said, till he was fairly out of the
room. Three or four of the company then ran hastily to the window to be
_sure_ that he and the dog were clear off into the street; and no sooner
had this satisfactory _dénouement_ been ascertained, than a general roar
of laughter ensued, and we talked it over in a hundred different ways:
the whole of our arguments, however, turned upon the question “which had
behaved the _politest_ upon the occasion?” but not one word was uttered
as to which had behaved the _stoutest_.
This spirit of false chivalry, which took such entire possession of
Hamilton Rowan’s understanding, was soon diverted into the channels of
political theory; and from the discussion of general politics, he
advanced blindly, but I really believe with the best intentions, to the
contemplation of sedition. His career in this respect was short:—he was
tried and convicted of circulating a factious paper, and sentenced to a
heavy fine and a long imprisonment, during which, political charges of a
much more serious nature were arrayed against him. He fortunately
escaped from prison to the house of Mr. Evans, of Portranne, near
Dublin, and got off in a fishing-boat to France, where, after numerous
dangers, he at length arrived safely.—Mr. Rowan subsequently resided
some years in America, in which country he had leisure for reflection,
and saw plainly the folly and mischief of his former conduct. The
government found that his contrition was sincere: he eventually received
his Majesty’s free pardon; and I have since seen him and his family at
the Castle drawing-rooms in dresses singularly splendid, where they were
well received by the Viceroy and by many of the nobility and gentry: and
people should consider that his Majesty’s free pardon for political
offences is always meant to _wipe away_ every injurious feeling from his
subjects’ recollection:—where the error was unaccompanied by any moral
crime, it left _no_ stigma whatever on private character.
The mention of Mr. Rowan reminds me of an anecdote of a singular nature,
extremely affecting, and which at the time was the subject of much
conversation: and as a connexion was alleged to exist between him and
the unfortunate gentleman to whom it relates, (which connexion had
nearly proved fatal to Mr. Rowan,) I consider this not an inappropriate
place to allude to the circumstance.
Mr. Jackson, an English clergyman, who had come over to assist in
organising a revolution in Ireland, had been arrested in that country,
tried, and found guilty of high treason in corresponding with the enemy
in France. I was in court when Mr. Jackson was brought up to receive
sentence of death; and I believe whoever was present must recollect it
as one of the most touching and uncommon scenes which appeared during
that eventful period.
He was conducted into the usual place where prisoners stand to receive
sentence. He was obviously much affected as he entered; his limbs seemed
to totter, and large drops of perspiration rolled down his face. He was
supposed to _fear death_, and to be in great terror. The judge began the
usual admonition before he pronounced sentence: the prisoner seemed to
regard it but little, appearing abstracted by internal agony. This was
still attributed to apprehension: he covered his face, and seemed
sinking: the judge paused—the crowd evinced surprise—and the sheriff, on
examination, declared the prisoner was _too ill_ to _hear_ his sentence.
Meanwhile, the wretched culprit continued to droop: and at length, his
limbs giving way, he fell! A visitation so unexampled created a great
sensation in the court: a physician was immediately summoned, but too
late; Jackson had eluded his sentence, and was no more.
It was discovered that, previous to his coming into Court, he had taken
a large quantity of arsenic and aqua-fortis mixed in tea. No judgment of
course was pronounced against him. He had a splendid funeral: and, to
the astonishment of Dublin, it was thoughtlessly attended by some
members of parliament and barristers!
It is a singular but a true observation, that I was always on friendly,
nay intimate, terms with many leading persons of the two most hostile
and intolerant political bodies that could possibly exist together in
one country; and in the midst of the most tumultuous and bloody scenes,
I did not find that I had an enemy. It is nearly unaccountable, that my
attachment to the government, and my activity in support of it, yet
placed me in no danger from its inveterate enemies:—and in several
instances I was sought as mediator between the rebels and Lord Kilwarden
(then attorney-general).[19] Now he is no more, it is but justice to
say, that of all the law officers and official servants of the Crown I
ever had communication with, the most kind-hearted, clement, and
honourable, was he whose manners and whose name conveyed a different
impression. I know that he had been solicited to take some harsh
measures as to the barristers who attended Jackson’s funeral; and though
he might have been colourably justified in doing so, he said “that both
the honour of his profession and the feelings of his own mind prevented
him from giving publicity to, or stamping as a crime, what he was sure
in its nature could only be inadvertency.”
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Footnote 19:
He was at that time Mr. Wolfe. An information _ex officio_ had been
filed against a printer in Cork for a seditious newspaper: it turned
out that the two Counsellors Sheers were the real editors. They begged
of me to mediate with the attorney-general. He had always a strong
feeling for the honour and character of his profession, and forgave
all parties, on conditions which I all but _vouched for_, but to which
they certainly did not adhere.
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