It would be almost impossible to enumerate the wits and humourists of Ireland in my early days. Wit was then regularly cultivated as an accomplishment, and was, in a greater or less degree, to be found in every society. Those whom nature had not blessed with that faculty (if a blessing it is) still did their very best—as a foreigner sports his broken English.
The convivial circles of the higher orders of Irish society, in fact, down to the year 1800, in point of wit, pleasantry, good temper, and friendly feeling, were pre-eminent; while the plentiful luxuries of the table, and rich furniture of the wine-cellar, were never surpassed, if equalled, among the gentry of any country. But every thing is now changed; that class of society is no more; neither men nor manners are the same; and even the looking back at those times affords a man who participated in their pleasures higher gratification than do the actual enjoyments of the passing era.
People may say this change is in myself: perhaps so: yet I think that if it were possible for an old man still to preserve unimpaired all the sensations of youth, he would, were he a gentleman, be of my way of thinking. As for those of my contemporaries who survive, and who lived in the same circles with myself, I have no doubt they are unanimously of my opinion. I had very lately an opportunity of seeing this powerfully exemplified by a noble lord at my house. Good fortune had attended him throughout life; always respected and beloved, he had at length become wealthy. When we talked over the days we had spent in our own country, his eyes filled, and he confessed to me his bitter repentance as to the Union.
The members of the Irish bar were then collectively the best home-educated persons in Ireland, the elder sons of respectable families being almost uniformly called to that profession. Among them, nevertheless, were some of humbler origin. Jeremiah Keller was such;—but his talent sufficed to elevate him. He had the rare faculty of dressing up the severest satire in the garb of pleasantry—a faculty, by the bye, which makes no friends, and often deepens and fixes animosity.
Keller was a good man, generally liked, and popular with a considerable portion of his profession. But though not rich, he occasionally exercised an independence of mind and manners which gave great distaste to the pride and arrogance of some of the leading authorities. Lord Clare could not endure him, and never missed an opportunity of showing or affecting to show his contempt for Jerry.
Lord Clare having died of the Union and the Duke of Bedford, it was proposed by his led captains and partizans, that the bar, in a body, should attend his funeral procession. But as his Lordship had made so many inveterate foes at the bar, by taking pains to prove himself their foe, it was thought necessary to canvass the profession individually, and ascertain who among them would object to attend. Very few did;—not that they cherished any personal respect for Lord Clare, but wished to compliment the remains of the first Irish chancellor. As Keller was known to be obstinate as well as virulent, it was held desirable to conciliate him if possible—though they anticipated the certainty of a direct refusal.
The deputation accordingly called on him: “You know, my dear fellow,” said Arthur Chichester M‘Courtney, who had been deputed as spokesman (beating about the bush), “that Lord Clare is to be buried to-morrow?”
“’Tis generally the last thing done with dead chancellors,” said Keller coolly.
“He’ll be buried in St. Peter’s,” said the spokesman.
“Then he’s going to a friend of the family,” said Keller. “His father was a papist.”[[43]]