It is, of course, most painful to me to recollect those persons whose lives were taken—some fairly—some, as I think, unfairly—at a time when military law had no restraint, and enormities were daily committed through it not much inferior to those practised by the rebels.
Sir Edward Crosby, a baronet with whom I was intimately acquainted, and who also lived tranquilly, as a country gentleman, upon a moderate fortune, near Carlow, was another person who always struck me to have been murdered by martial law. There was not even a rational pretence for his execution. His trial, with all its attending documents, has been published, and his innocence, in fact, made manifest. The president of the martial court was one Major Dennis, who some time after quitted the service—I shall not mention why. The sentence on Sir Edward was confirmed by Sir Charles Asgill, I must suppose through gross misrepresentation, as Sir Charles had himself known enough about hanging (though personally innocent) in America, to have rendered him more merciful, or at least more cautious in executing the first baronet of Ireland.
The entire innocence of Sir Edward Crosby has since, as I just now mentioned, been acknowledged by all parties. His manners were mild and well-bred: he was tall and genteel in appearance; and upward of fifty years of age. He had a wife who loved him; and was every way a happy man till he was borne to execution without the slightest cause. He was the elder brother of my old college friend, Balloon Crosby, whom I have heretofore mentioned in relating my rencontre with Mr. Daly. (See Vol. ii.) He did not die with the courage of Keogh, but hoped for mercy to the last minute, relying on the interference of his old friend Judge Downes, who, however, proved but a broken reed.
REMINISCENCES OF WIT.
Wit distinguished from ribaldry—Chief Baron Yelverton and Mr. Curran—Chief Justice Clonmell—Lord Norbury’s comprehensive powers—Sir Hercules Langreish, and his digressions in claret-drinking—Gervoise Parker Bushe, Chief Baron Burgh, &c.—Peculiar traits of Irish convivial society in the author’s day—Jeremiah Keller—Lord Clare’s funeral—A scanty fee—The Pope and Pretender—Counsellor Norcott’s talent of mimickry—Ballinlaw ferry—Cæsar Colclough, of Duffry Hall, and Julius Cæsar.
There is no intellectual faculty so difficult to define, or of which there are so many degrees and gradations, as wit. Humour may be termed a sort of table d’hôte, whereat wit and ribaldry sometimes mingle. Certain eminent countrymen of mine possessed these various conversational qualities in great perfection, and often called them into action at the same sitting. Among them, Mr. Curran and Chief Baron Yelverton were most conspicuous; but the flow of their bonhomie was subject to many contingencies. It is worthy notice, that all the Irish judges of those days who could conjure up a single joke, affected wit. Lord Clonmell, chief justice, was but clumsy at repartee, though an efficient humourist. He seldom rose above anecdotes, but these he acted whilst he told them. He had the peculiar advantage of knowing mankind well, and suiting his speech to the ears of his company. Lord Norbury had witticisms, puns, jeux-d’esprit—in short, jokes of all kinds, constantly at hand. His impromptus were sometimes excellent, but occasionally failed;—he made, however, more hits than any one of his contemporaries. Nobody, it is true, minded much what he said:—if it was good, they laughed heartily; if bad, it was only a Norbury;—and so, by an indefatigable practice of squibbing, it is not wonderful that, during a life of eighty years, he should have uttered many good things—though, oddly enough, few of them are preserved.
Lord Norbury sang extremely well.—On my first circuit as counsel, in 1787, he went as judge, and I have often heard him warble “Black-eyed Susan” and “Admiral Benbow,” as well as parts in divers glees and catches, most agreeably.—Requiescat in pace!
Sir Hercules Langreish, a commissioner of revenue, and one of the most popular courtiers of our society, had an abundance of slow, kind-hearted, though methodistically pronounced, repartee. (A living friend of mine in high rank has much more wit than Sir Hercules; but there is less philanthropy about it). I have heretofore mentioned his retort courteous to Mr. Dundas, and will now give another specimen:—He was surprised one evening at his house in Stephen’s Green, by Sir John Parnell, Duigenan, and myself, who went to him on an immaterial matter of revenue business. We found him in his study alone, poring over the national accounts, with two claret bottles empty before him and a third bottle on the wane; it was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the butler, according to general orders when gentlemen came in, brought a bottle of claret to each of us. “Why,” said Parnell, “Sir Heck, you have emptied two bottles already.” “True,” said Sir Hercules. “And had you nobody to help you?” “O yes, I had that bottle of port there, and I assure you he afforded me very great assistance!”
Gervoise Parker Bushe could boast of wit enough for a member of parliament, and more than enough for a commissioner of the revenue. An eminent relative of his, now living, possesses the finest specimen I know at present of the smooth, classical species.
I never knew two distinguished individuals approach each other so nearly in many respects as the late Chief Baron Hussy Burgh and the personage who now presides over the first law court of Ireland. In some points, it is true, they differed:—the former was proud, the latter affable. The eloquence of the former was more highly polished, more classical and effective; that of the latter, more simple, more familiar, yet decided. When very young, I was fascinated by the eloquence of the silver-tongued orator (as he was then called), and sought every possible opportunity of hearing him both at the bar and in the House of Commons. His was the purest declamation I have ever listened to; and when he made an instrument of his wit, it was pointed and acute. He was a miscellaneous poet, and wrote epigrams (several upon Lord Aldborough), which were extremely severe, but at the same time extremely humorous.