In 1790 he was in the zenith of his glory; but even so early as 1796, his talents and popularity seemed to me to have commenced an obvious declension. By seceding from parliament, he evacuated the field of battle and that commanding eminence from whence he had so proudly repulsed all his enemies. His talents, 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 subtleties of detail;—but his imagination was wide-ranging and 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 first faculties of an advocate and of 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 every body’s superior, nobody ever seemed jealous of that superiority:—it soared too high above the pretensions of others.
Curran’s person was mean and decrepid: 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 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 errors he made interesting—his very foibles were amusing.—He had no vein for poetry; yet fancying himself a bard, he fabricated pretty verses: he certainly was no musician; but conceiving himself to be one, played pleasantly on the fiddle. Nature had denied him a voice; but he thought he could sing; and in the rich mould of his capabilities, the desire here also engendered the capacity, and his Irish ballads were excessively entertaining.
It is a curious, but a just remark, that every slow, crawling reptile is in the highest degree disgusting; while an insect, ten times uglier, if it be sprightly and seem bent upon enjoyment, excites no shudder. It is so with the human race: had Curran been a dull, slothful, torpid mannerist, all 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 energy to every word he uttered, and new life 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 females.—Nothing flatters a woman so much as being noticed by a man of talent: she considers it as a public eulogium on his own understanding: her looking-glass had told her she was pretty; but she was not so certain of her intellectual attractions.
Curran had a perfect horror of fleas: nor was this very extraordinary, since those vermin seemed to show 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 carcase 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 so happy as usual in his speech on this occasion—but he thought he was. Nevertheless, we succeeded; and Curran, in great spirits, was very anxious to coax 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. “Now what did you think of my speech to evidence, to-day, Godwin?—Eh?”
“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 any thing 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. He always kept a good fiddle in London, which he occasionally brought out under his coat to dining-houses where we were not known. It produced innumerable adventures; for he played and sang in the drollest manner.
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 Curran was free from professional cares, his universal language was that of wit, while my high spirits never failed to prompt my performance of Jackall 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 auditors 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,) on your table, every day at five o’clock, while you stay in town; and, I must beg to add, no charge, gentlemen!”