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, we desired a bill, which the landlord positively refused: however, we computed for ourselves, and sent him a 10l. 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:—indeed, I believe he never returned.
An anecdote of a very different nature terminated one of our trips to London:—I had long known that there had existed what Curran called “a refined friendship” between him and a Miss Hughes, at Spa. She was afterward a friend of Holman, the player, and finally married Major Scott, an associate of Mr. Hastings. Curran asked me one day, if I was too squeamish to go and sup with a former friend of his, who had pressed him to come that evening to supper, 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. She had in fact been a lady of very considerable estate there.
We were received with the greatest cordiality and politeness by Miss Hughes:—another young lady and two children were in the room. Curran was most humorous and enlivening, and every thing 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 Hughes 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 Hughes’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; “but I thought it was a shot!” “Did she say any thing,” 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:—he trembled; his lips quavered, and after staggering about, he made some excuse for leaving the room. Toward dinner-time, I found I had carried my joke too far; 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 house and hospitable table he became a frequent guest.
Mrs. Waring afterward broke her neck by a fall down stairs; and some people averred that a flask or two of champaign had been playing tricks upon her. 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 any where; while, if I could judge by report, it was miraculous how Curran’s pegs preserved his perpendicular on occasion of what he termed the diabolical clout she bestowed upon him.
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, a friendly, honourable man, seemed but ill calculated to shine among 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 among all classes.