“I can’t believe it,” replied Sir Richard.
“Well, then,” said Sir John, “if you won’t believe my word, by G—d I’ll give it you under my hand!” clenching at the same moment his great fist.
The witticism raised a general laugh, in which the parties themselves joined, and in a moment all was good-humour. But the company condemned both the offenders—Sir John for telling a lie, and Sir Richard for not believing it—to the payment of two bottles of hock each.
Whoever the following story may be fathered on, Sir John Hamilton was certainly its parent. The Duke of Rutland, at one of his levees, being at a loss (as probably most kings, princes, and viceroys occasionally are) for something to say to every person he was bound in etiquette to notice, remarked to Sir John Hamilton that there was “a prospect of an excellent crop:—the timely rain,” observed the duke, “will bring every thing above ground.”
“God forbid, your Excellency!” exclaimed the courtier.
His excellency stared, whilst Sir John continued, sighing heavily as he spoke:—“yes, God forbid! for I have got three wives under it!”
At one of those large convivial parties which distinguished the table of Major Hobart, when he was secretary in Ireland, among the usual loyal toasts, “The wooden walls of England” being given,—Sir John Hamilton, in his turn, gave “The wooden walls of Ireland!” This toast being quite new to us all, he was asked for an explanation: upon which, filling a bumper, he very gravely stood up, and bowing to the Marquess of Waterford and several country gentlemen, who commanded county regiments, he said—“My lords and gentlemen! I have the pleasure of giving you ‘The wooden walls of Ireland’—the colonels of militia!”
So broad but so good-humoured a jeu d’esprit, excited great merriment: the truth was forgotten in the jocularity, but the epithet did not perish. I saw only one grave countenance in the room, and that belonged to the late Marquess of Waterford, who was the proudest egotist I ever met with. He had a tremendous squint—the eyes looking inward, a disposition which Lavater particularly characterises; and as to the marquess, he was perfectly right: nor was there any thing prepossessing in the residue of his features to atone for this deformity. Nothing can better exemplify his lordship’s opinion of himself and others, than an observation I heard him make at Lord Portarlington’s table. Having occasion for a superlative degree of comparison between two persons, he was at a loss for a climax. At length, however, he luckily hit on one. “That man was—(said the marquess)—he was as superior as—as—as—I am to Lord Ranelagh!”
I will now advert to Sir Boyle Roche, who certainly was, without exception, the most celebrated and entertaining anti-grammarian in the Irish Parliament. I knew him intimately. He was of a very respectable Irish family, and, in point of appearance, a fine, bluff, soldier-like old gentleman. He had numerous good qualities; and having been long in the army, his ideas were full of honour and etiquette—of discipline and bravery. He had a claim to the title of Fermoy, which however he never pursued; and was brother to the famous Tiger Roche, who fought some desperate duel abroad, and was near being hanged for it.[[41]] Sir Boyle was perfectly well-bred in all his habits; had been appointed gentleman-usher at the Irish Court, and executed the duties of that office to the day of his death with the utmost satisfaction to himself as well as to every one in connexion with him. He was married to the eldest daughter of Sir John Frankland, Bart.; and his lady, who was a bas bleu, prematurely injured Sir Boyle’s capacity (it was said) by forcing him to read “Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” whereat he was so cruelly puzzled without being in the least amused, that, in his cups, he often stigmatised the great historian as a low-bred fellow, who ought to have been kicked out of company whereever he was, for turning people’s thoughts away from their prayers and their politics, to what the devil himself could make neither head nor tail of!