The Admiral Keppel
In 1818 the Admiral Keppel courted the custom of passing travellers by a poetical appeal to the feelings of both man and beast:—
“Stop, brave boys, and quench your thirst;
If you won’t drink, your horses murst.”
There was something rural in this: the distich was painted in very rude white letters on a small black board; and when Keppel’s portrait, which swung in air, like England’s flag, braving
“The battle and the breeze,”
was unhinged and placed against the front of the house, this board was appended as its motto. Both, however, were displaced by the march of public-house improvement; the weather-beaten sign of the gallant admiral’s head was transferred to a wall of the back premises, where its “faded form” might, until recently, have been recognised; but, though the legible record has perished, opus vatum durat.
Amelia Place is a row of nine houses immediately beyond the Admiral Keppel. Within the walls of the last low house in the row, and the second with a verandah, the Right Hon. John Philpot Curran died on the 14th of October, 1817. It had then a pleasant look-out upon green fields and a nursery-garden, now occupied by Pelham Crescent. Here it was, with the exception of a short excursion to Ireland, that Curran had resided during the twelve months previous to his death.
“From the period in which Curran emerged from the first struggles of an unfriended man, labouring up a jealous profession, his history makes a part of the annals of his country: once upon the surface, his light was always before the eye, it never sank and was never outshone. With great powers to lift himself beyond the reach of that tumultuous and stormy agitation that must involve the movers of the public mind in a country such as Ireland then was, he loved to cling to the heavings of the wave; he, at least, never rose to that tranquil elevation to which his early contemporaries had one by one climbed; and never left the struggle till the storm had gone down, it is to be hoped for ever. This was his destiny, but it might have been his choice, and he was not without the reward, which, to an ambitious mind conscious of its eminent powers, might be more than equivalent to the reluctant patronage of the throne. To his habits legal distinction would have been only a bounty upon his silence; his limbs would have been fettered by the ermine; but he had the compensation of boundless popular honour, much respect from the higher ranks of party, much admiration and much fear from the lower partizans. In Parliament he was the assailant most dreaded; in the law-courts he was the advocate deemed the most essential; in both he was an object of all the more powerful passions of man but rivalry,—
‘He stood alone and shone alone.’”