John Philpott Curran.

Chapter XXXI.

John Philpott Curran

Sketch of his character - Personal description - Lodgings at Carlow - Mr. Curran and Mr. Godwin - Scenes in the “Cannon” Coffee-house - *Liberality *of mine host - Miss H--- in heroics - Precipitate retreat - Lord Clancarty - Mr. Curran’s notion of his own prowess - The disqualifications of a wig - Lord and Lady Carleton - Curran in 1812 - An attorney turned cobbler - Curran’s audience of the present King of France - Strictures on his biographers.

There have been few public men whose characters have afforded a more ample field for comment than that of Mr. Curran, and there are *very *few who have been more miserably handled by their biographers. Young men who fancied they knew him because they were latterly in his society, in fact, knew him not at all. None but the intimates of his earlier and brighter days, and, even among such, those only who had mixed with him in general as well as professional society, could possibly estimate the inconsistent qualities of that celebrated orator. There was such a mingling of greatness and littleness, of sublimity and meanness, in his thoughts and language, that cursory observers, confused amidst his versatility and brilliance, quitted Curran’s society without understanding anything relating to him beyond his buoyant spirits and playful wit. But towards the close of his day this splendour dissipated, and dark and gloomy tints appeared too conspicuously, poor fellow! for his posthumous reputation. He felt his decline pressing quick upon him, and gradually sank into listless apathy.

Even so early as 1798, his talents and popularity seemed to me to have commenced a slow but obvious declension. By seceding from Parliament in the preceding year, he had evacuated the field of battle and that commanding eminence from whence he had so proudly repulsed all his enemies. His talents, it is true, for a while survived; but his habits of life became contracted, his energies were paralysed, his mind rambled, he began to prose, and, after his appointment to the Rolls, the world seemed to be closing fast upon him.

My intimacy with Curran was long and close. I knew every turn of his mind and every point of his capacity. He was not fitted to pursue the niceties of detail; but his imagination was infinite, his fancy boundless, his wit indefatigable. There was scarce any species of talent to which he did not possess some pretension. He was gifted by Nature with the faculties of an advocate and a dramatist; and the lesser but ingenious accomplishment of personification, without mimicry, was equally familiar to him. In the circles of society, where he appeared everybody’s superior, nobody ever seemed jealous of the superiority.

Curran’s person was mean and decrepit: very slight, very shapeless - with nothing of the gentleman about it; on the contrary, displaying spindle limbs, a shambling gait, one hand imperfect, and a face yellow, furrowed, rather flat and thoroughly ordinary. Yet his features were the very reverse of disagreeable; there was something so indescribably dramatic in his eye and the play of his eyebrow, that his visage seemed the index of his mind, and his humour the slave of his will. I never was so happy in the company of any man as in Curran’s for many years. His very foibles were amusing. He had no vein for poetry; yet fancying himself a bard, he contrived to throw off pretty verses: he certainly was no musician; but conceiving himself to be one, played very pleasingly: Nature had denied him a voice, but he thought he could sing; and in the rich mould of his capabilities the desire here also bred, in some degree, the capacity.

It is a curious but a just remark that every slow, *crawling *reptile is in the highest degree disgusting, whilst an insect ten times uglier, if it be sprightly and seems bent upon enjoyment, excites no shuddering. It is so with the human race: had Curran been a dull, slothful, inanimate being, his talents would not have redeemed his personal defects. But his rapid movements, his fire, his sparkling eye, the fine and varied intonations of his voice, these conspired to give life and energy to every company he mixed with; and I have known ladies who, after an hour’s conversation, actually considered Curran a *beauty, *and preferred his society to that of the finest fellows present. There is, however, it must be admitted, a good deal in the circumstance of a man being *celebrated, *as regards the patronage of women.

Curran had a perfect *horror *of fleas; nor was this very extraordinary, since those vermin seemed to shew him peculiar hostility. If they infested a house, my friend said that “they always flocked to his bed-chamber when they heard he was to sleep there!” I recollect his being dreadfully annoyed in this way at Carlow, and on making his complaint in the morning to the woman of the house, “By Heavens! madam,” cried he, “they were in such numbers, and seized upon my carcass with so much ferocity, that if they had been unanimous, and all pulled one way, they must have dragged me out of bed entirely!”

I never saw Curran’s opinion of himself so much disconcerted as by Mr. Godwin, whom he had brought, at the Carlow assizes, to dine with Mr. Byrne, a friend of ours, in whose cause he and I had been specially employed as counsel. Curran, undoubtedly, was not happy in his speech on this occasion, but he thought he was. Nevertheless, we succeeded, and Curran in great spirits, was very anxious to receive a public compliment from Mr. Godwin, as an eminent literary man, teasing him, half-jokingly, for his opinion of his speech. Godwin fought shy for a considerable time. At length, Curran put the question home to him, and it could no longer be shifted.

“Since you *will *have my opinion,” said Godwin, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair with much *sang froid, *“I really never did hear anything so bad as your *prose, *except your *poetry, *my dear Curran:”

Curran and I were in the habit for several years of meeting, by appointment, in London during the long vacation, and spending a month there together, in the enjoyment of the public amusements, but we were neither extravagant nor dissipated. We had both some propensities in common, and a never-failing amusement was derived from drawing out and remarking upon eccentric characters. Curran played on such people as he would on an instrument, and produced whatever tone he thought proper from them. Thus he always had a good *fiddle *in London, which he occasionally brought to our dining-house for the general entertainment.

We were in the habit of frequenting the Cannon Coffee-house, Charing Cross, kept by the uncle of Mr. Roberts, proprietor of the Royal Hotel, Calais, where we had a box every day at the end of the room; and as when Curran was free from professional cares, his universal language was that of wit, my high spirits never failed to prompt my performance of *Jackal *to the *Lion. *Two young gentlemen of the Irish bar were frequently of our party in 1796, and contributed to keep up the flow of wit which, on Curran’s part, was well-nigh miraculous. Gradually the ear and attention of the company were caught. Nobody knew us, and as if carelessly the guests flocked round our box to listen. We perceived them, and increased our flights accordingly. Involuntarily they joined in the laugh, and the more so when they saw it gave no offence. Day after day the number of our satellites increased, until the room at five o’clock was thronged to hear “the Irishmen.” One or two days we went elsewhere, and on returning to “the Cannon” our host begged to speak a word with me at the bar. “Sir,” said he, “I never had such a set of pleasant gentlemen in my house, and I hope you have received no offence.” I replied, “Quite the contrary!” - “Why, sir,” rejoined he, “as you did not come the last few days the company fell off. Now, sir, I hope you and the other gentleman will excuse me if I remark that you will find an excellent dish of fish, and a roast turkey or joint, with any wine you please, hot on your table every day at five o’clock whilst you stay in town, and I must beg to add, *no charge, *gentlemen.”

I reported to Curran, and we agreed to see it out. The landlord was as good as his word: the room was filled, we coined stories to tell each other, the lookers-on laughed almost to convulsions, and for some time we literally feasted. Having had our humour out, I desired a bill, which the landlord positively refused; however, we computed for ourselves, and sent him a £10 note enclosed in a letter, desiring him to give the balance to his waiters.

I do not think I was ever so amused in my life as at that curious occurrence. One Irish templar alone recognised us, and we made him promise secrecy as to our names. I never saw him after.

An anecdote of a very different nature terminated one of our trips to London. I had long known that there existed what Curran called “a refined friendship” between him and a Miss H--- at Spa and elsewhere. She was afterwards a friend of Holman, the player, and finally married Major ---, an associate of Mr. Hastings. Curran asked me one day if I was too squeamish to go and sup with a former *chere amie *of his who had pressed him to come that night, and permitted him to bring a companion. He told me who it was, and I was quite pleased at the idea of knowing a person of whom I had heard so much in Ireland.

We were received with the greatest cordiality and politeness by Miss H---. Another young lady and two children were in the room. Curran was most humorous and enlivening, and everything foreboded a cheerful *petit soupé *when the lady told Curran she wished to speak a word to him in the next room. They accordingly withdrew. I was in conversation with the governess and children when I heard a noise like the report of a small pistol, and Curran immediately rushed into the apartment, Miss H--- marching majestically after him. He took no notice of me, but snatching up his hat, darted down stairs and into the street with the utmost expedition. I really conceived that she had fired at him, and feeling dubious as to my own probable fate, without a word passing, pounced upon my *chapeau, *and made after my friend in no small haste. I could not however, open the street door, and therefore gave myself up for a murdered man, particularly on the bell ringing violently; but the revulsion of my feelings was quite heavenly when I heard Miss H---‘s voice over the banisters calling to her maid to “open the street-door for the gentleman.” I lost no time in making good my retreat, but did not see Curran again till next morning.

I had the greatest curiosity to know the cause of his sudden flight, upon which he told me, but without any symptom of wit or humour, that she was the most violent-tempered woman existing; that on their going into the *boudoir *together, she informed him that she was then considerably distressed for a sum of money for two or three months, and that as she had never been under any pecuniary obligation to him, she would now ask one - namely, the loan of the sum she wanted, on her own note.

Curran, who was particularly close, dreading the amount, anticipated her demand by hoping she did not suppose he could be so mean as to require her note for any little advance he might have it in his power to make, and was happy in handing her half the sum at his command in London, taking as he spoke a £10 note out of his pocket-book. “By Heavens! Barrington,” said Curran, “her look petrified me: she gazed for a moment at the note, tore it to atoms, muttering the word ‘rascal!’ and when I was preparing to make an apology, hit me plump on the side of the head with a fist at least as strong as any porter’s! I thought my brains were knocked out! Did you not hear the crack?” inquired he. - “To be sure I did,” said I. - “Did she say anything,” continued he, “after I was gone away?” - “She *only *said,” replied I, “that you were the greatest rascal existing,” hereat Curran trembled hugely, “and that she would next day find you out wherever you were, and expose you all over London as a villain and a seducer!”

Curran turned pale as ashes, made some excuse for leaving the room, and about dinner time I found 1 had carried my joke too far; for I received a note stating that he was necessitated to start for Ireland directly on particular business, and would be off in the mail.

I never told him the truth, Particularly since the lady was soon after married, as I have related, and had a noble establishment in London, and as I learned that Curran had found means to make his peace with the offended fair, at whose table he became a frequent guest.

Mrs. --- afterwards broke her neck by a fall down stairs; and some people averred that a flask or two of champagne had been playing tricks upon hen She was most agreeable in her address and manner, her amazonian paroxysms always excepted. The extraordinary length of her feet, which were like a pair of brackets, should have saved her from tumbling anywhere; whilst, if I could judge by report, it was miraculous how Curran’s pegs preserved him on the perpendicular.

I remember once remarking to Curran how many men, though all willing, and some competent to work, were destitute of briefs at the Irish bar, yet contrived to make conspicuous, though not over-talented, figures in political and diplomatic situations. “Why, some,” answered he, “thrive by the gift of common sense; others by the influence of their wives, and such-like causes.”

Lord Clancarty and Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald were two Irish barristers in whom I never could perceive the raw material for *ambassadors, *yet none ever dropped their *“Nisi Prius” *with better effect. The former, though a friendly, honourable man, seemed particularly ill calculated to shine amongst the immortal carvers, who at Vienna cut up nations like dumplings, and served round people and kingdoms to the members of their company with as little ceremony as if they had been dealing only with paste and raspberries.

Lord Clancarty’s family were for a long period highly respected land proprietors in County Galway, and at the great cattle fair of Ballinasloe; but never were remarkable for any profusion of talent. His lordship’s father, usually called Billy Trench of Ballinasloe, was a nice dapper little man, wore tight clean leather breeches, and was very like the late Lord Clanwilliam, of amorous memory. He was extremely popular amongst all classes.

The present peer was called to the Irish bar. Most men are found to have some predominant quality when it is properly drawn forth; but in sending Mr. Trench to the bar, his friends found, after a due novitiate, that they were endeavouring to extract the wrong commodity, and that his law would never furnish a sufficient *depot *to recruit his pocket.

During the rebellion, however, I discovered that he was a most excellent sergeant of dragoons, in which capacity his lordship was my subaltern in the barristers’ cavalry; and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that a considerable portion of our rank and file were, in a very short time after the Union, metamorphosed into ambassadors, secretaries, judges, noblemen, bishops, and ministers!

What a loss must the empire have sustained if we had been all piked by the rebels! a result not very improbable, as I am apprehensive we should have proved rather helpless fellows in a general engagement with 20,000 or 30,000 of those desperate gentry! in which case, the whole kingdom of Ireland would have been left with scarcely sufficient professors of the art of litigation to keep that science, as well as the church and state, in preservation till new lawyers could be broke into the harness.

Curran took no part in those fierce military associations, and he was quite right. He was perfectly unadapted either to command on to obey; and as he must have done the one or the other, he managed much better by keeping out of the broil altogether; as he himself said to me - “If I were mounted on ever so good a charger, it is probable I should not stick 10 minutes on his back in any kind of battle; and if my sword was ever so sharp, I should not be able to cut a rebel’s head off, unless he promised to *‘stand easy’ *and in a good position for me.”

Curran had ordered a new bar wig, and not liking the cut of it, he jestingly said to the peruke-maker, “Mr. Gahan, this wig will not answer me at all!”

“How so, sir !” said Gahan - “it seems to fit.”

“Ay,” replied Curran, “but it is the very worst *speaking *wig I ever had. I can scarcely utter one word of common law in it; and as for *equity, *it is totally out of the question.”

“ell, sir,” said Mr. Gahan, the wigmaker, with a serious face, “I hope it may be no loss to me. I daresay it will answer Counsellor Trench.”

But Counsellor Trench would not take the wig. He said he could not *hear *a word in it. At length it was sent by Gahan to Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, who having at that time no pressing occasion for either a speaking or hearing wig in a professional way, and the wig fitting his head he purchased it from Mr. Gahan, who sold it a bargain on account of its bad character; though Curran afterwards said, “he admitted that the wig had been grossly calumniated; for the very same head which Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald then put it on was afterwards stationed at the front of the Irish exchequer, where every one of the king’s debtors and farmers were obliged to pay the wigwearer some very handsome and *substantial *compliment!” - Mr. Fitzgerald not being necessitated either to hear or speak one word upon the occasion.”

Chief Justice Carleton was a very lugubrious personage. He never ceased complaining of his bad state of health, or rather of his hypochondriasm, and frequently introduced Lady Carleton into his *Book of Lamentations: *thence it was remarked by Curran to be very extraordinary, that the chief justice should appear as plaintiff *(plaintive) *in every cause that happened to come before him!

One *Nisi Prius *day, Lord Carleton came into court looking unusually gloomy. He apologised to the bar for being necessitated to adjourn the court and dismiss the jury for that day, “though,” proceeded his lordship, “I am aware that an important issue stands for trial; but the fact is, I have met with a domestic misfortune, which has altogether deranged my nerves! Poor Lady Carleton (in a low tone to the bar) has most unfortunately *miscarried *and” -

“Oh, then, my lord!” exclaimed Curran, “there was no necessity for your lordship to make any apology, since it now appears that your lordship has *no issue *to try.”

The chief justice faintly smiled, and thanked the bar for their consideration.

In 1812 Curran dined at my house in Brook Street, London. He was very dejected: I did my utmost to rouse him, in vain. He leaned his face on his hand, and was long silent. He looked yellow, wrinkled, and livid: the dramatic fire had left his eye, the spirit of his wit had fled, his person was shrunken, and his whole demeanour miserable and distressing.

After a long pause, a dubious tear standing in his eye, he on a sudden exclaimed with a sort of desperate composure, “Barrington, I am perishing! day by day I’m perishing! I feel it: you knew me when I *lived, *and you witness my annihilation.” He was again silent.

I felt deeply for him. I saw that he spoke truth: reasoning would only have increased the malady, and I therefore tried another course - *bagatelle. *I jested with him, and reminded him of old anecdotes. He listened - gradually his attention was caught, and at length I excited a smile; a laugh soon followed, a few glasses of wine brought him to his natural temperament, and Curran was himself for a great part of the evening. I saw, however, that he would soon relapse, and so it turned out; he began to talk to me about his family, and that very wildly. He had conceived some strange prejudices on this head, which I disputed with him, until I wearied of the subject.

We supped together, and he sat cheerful enough till I turned him into a coach at one o’clock in the morning. I never saw him after in London.

Mr. Curran had a younger brother who was an attorney - very like him, but taller and better looking. This man had a good deal of his brother’s humour, a little wit, and much satire; but his slang was infinite, and his conduct very dissolute. He was, in fact, what may be termed the best blackguard of his profession, and that was saying a great deal for him. My friend had justly excluded him from his house, but occasionally relieved his finances, until these calls became so importunate, that at length further compliance was refused.

“Sir,” said the attorney to me one day, “if you will speak to my brother, I am sure he’ll give me something handsome before the week is out!” I assured him he was mistaken, whereupon he burst into a loud laugh.

There was a small space of dead wall at that time directly facing Curran’s house in Ely Place, against which the attorney procured a written permission to build a little wooden box. He accordingly got a carpenter, one of his comrades, to erect a cobbler’s stall there for him; and having assumed the dress of a Jobson, he wrote over his stall, “Curran, Cobbler. Shoes toe-pieced, soled, or heeled on the shortest notice: when the stall is shut, inquire over the way.”

Curran, on returning from court, perceived this worthy hard at work, with a parcel of chairmen lounging round him. The attorney just nodded to his brother, cried “How do you do, Jack?” and went on with his employment.

Curran immediately despatched a servant for the spendthrift, to whom having given some money, the show-board was taken down, the stall removed, and the attorney vowed that he would never set up again as a cobbler.

I never knew Curran express more unpleasant feelings than at a circumstance which really was too trivial to excite any such; but this was his humour: he generally thought more of trifles than of matters of importance, and worked himself up into most painful sensations upon subjects which should only have excited his laughter.

At the commencement of the peace he came to Paris, determined to get into French society, and thus be enabled to form a better idea of their habits and manners

• a species of knowledge for which he quite languished. His parasites had told him that his fame had already preceded him even to the closet of Louis *le Désiré: *he accordingly procured letters of introduction from persons of high rank in England, who had foolishly lavished favours and fortunes on the Bourbons and their gang of emigrants, in general the most ungrateful, as time has demonstrated, of the human species, although it was then universally believed that they could not quite forget the series of kindnesses which had preserved them from starvation or massacre.

Amongst other letters, he had the honour of bearing one, couched in strong terms, from his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex to the Count d’Artois, now King of France, reinstated on the throne of his forefathers by the blood, the treasure, and the folly of England.

“Now I am in the right line,” said Curran, “introduced by a branch of one royal family to that of another; now I shall have full opportunity of forming my own opinion as to the sentiments of the old and new nobility of France, whereon I have been eternally though rather blindly arguing.”

I was rather sceptical, and said, “I am disposed to think that you will argue more than ever when you get home again. If you want *sentiment, *I fancy Monsieur has very little of Sterne in his composition.”

“Egad, I believe there is two of you!” retorted Curran!” and away he went to the Tuilleries, to enter his name and see Monsieur. Having left his card and letters of introduction, as desired, he waited 10 days for an audience: Monsieur was occupied. A second entry was now made by Curran at the palace; and after 10 days more a third; but Monsieur was still busy. A fresh entry and card of P. P. C. had no better success. In my life I never saw Curran so chagrined. He had devised excuses for the arrogant prince two or three times; but this last instance of neglect quite overcame him, and in a few days he determined to return to Ireland without seeing the Count d’Artois or ascertaining the sentiments of the French nobility. He told his story to Mr. L---, a mutual friend of ours in Paris, who said, it must be some omission of the Swiss porter.

“Certainly,” said Curran, catching at this straw, “it must, no doubt!” and his opinion was speedily realised by the receipt of a note from Monsieur’s aid-de-camp, stating that His Royal Highness would be glad to receive Mr. Curran at eight o’clock the following morning.

About nine o’clock he returned to the hotel, and all I could get from him in his wrath was “D—n!” In fact, he looked absolutely miserable. “To think,” said he at length, “of this fellow! he told me he always dined with his brother, and kept no establishment of his own; then bowed me out, by ---, as if I was an importunate dancing-master!”

“Wait till *the next revolution, *Cutran,” said I, “and then we’ll be even with him!”

At this moment Mr. L--- came in, and with a most cheerful countenance said, “Well, Curran, I carried your point!”

“What point?” asked Curran.

“I knew it would take,” pursued L--- smirking: “I told Monsieur’s aid-de-camp that you felt quite hurt and miserable on account of Monsieur’s having taken no notice of your letters or yourself, though you had paid him four visits, and that ---”

“What do you say?” shouted Curran.

Upon L--- repeating his words with infinite glee, our disappointed friend burst out into a regular frenzy, slapped** **his face repeatedly, and walked about exclaiming, “I’m disgraced! I ‘m humbled in the eyes of that fellow! I’m miserable!”

I apprehend he had experienced but little more civility from any of the restored gentry of the French emigrants, to several of whom he brought letters, and I am sure had he received any invitation from them I must have heard of it.

I fancy that a glass of *eau sucre *was the very extent of the practical hospitality he experienced from *Messieurs les émigrés, *who, if I might judge by their jaws and cravats, of the quantity and quality of their food and of their credit with washerwomen, were by no means in as flourishing a state as when they lived on our benevolence.

There is much of the life of this celebrated man [Curran died, I believe, at Brompton, and was buried in Paddington Churchyard; but I am ignorant whether or not a stone marks the spot.] omitted by those who have attempted to write it. Even his son could have known but little of him, as he was not born at the time his father’s glories had attained their zenith. Before he became the biographer of his celebrated parent, Mr. Curran would have done well to inquire who had been that parent’s decided friends, and who his invidious enemies; who supported him when his fame was tottering, and who assailed him when he was incapable of resistance; if he had used this laudable discretion, he would probably have learned how to eulogise, and how to censure, with more justice and discrimination.

No gentleman of our day knew Mr. Curran more intimately than myself, although our natural propensities were in many points quite uncongenial. His vanity too frequently misled his judgment, and he thought himself surrounded by a crowd of friends, when he was encompassed by a set of vulgar flatterers; he looked quite carelessly at the distinctions of society, and in consequence ours was not generally of the same class, and our intercourse more frequently at my house than at his. But he could adapt himself to all ranks, and was equally at home at Merrion Square or at the Priory.

The celebrity of Curran’s life, and the obscurity of his death - the height of his eminence, and the depth of his depression - the extent of his talents, and the humiliation of his imbecility - exhibited the greatest and most singular contrasts I ever knew among the host of public characters with whom I so long associated.

At the bar I never saw an orator so capable of producing those irresistible transitions of effect which form the true criterion of forensic eloquence. But latterly, no man became more capable, in private society, of exciting drowsiness by prosing, or disgust by grossness; such are the inconsistent materials of humanity. [It is very singular that one of the most accomplished men, the most eloquent barristers, and best lawyers I ever knew (a cousin-german of Lord Donoughmore) fell latterly, though at an early age, into a state of total imbecility - became utterly regardless of himself, of society, and of the world, and lived long enough to render his death a mercy!]

I should not allude here to a painful subject as respects the late Mr. Curran, had it not been so commonly spoken of, and so prominent an agent in his ulterior misfortunes, I mean that unlucky suit of his against the Rev. Mr. Sandes. I endeavoured as much as possible to dissuade him from commencing that action, having reason to feel convinced that it must terminate in his discomfiture but he was obdurate, and had bitter cause to lament his obduracy. I did my utmost also to dissuade him from his unfortunate difference with Mr. Ponsonby. I told him, as I firmly believed, that he was *wrong, *or at all events *imprudent, *and that his reputation could bear no more trifling with, but he did not credit me, and that blow felled him to the earth!

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