During Curran’s residence in Amelia Place he suffered two slight apoplectic attacks; but he, nevertheless, “occasionally indulged in society, and was to his last sparkle the most interesting, singular, and delightful of all table companions.” The forenoon he generally passed in a solitary ramble through the neighbouring fields and gardens (which have now disappeared), and in the evening he enjoyed the
conversation of a few friends; but, though the brilliancy of his wit shone to the last, he seemed like one who had outlived everything in life that was worth enjoying. This is exemplified in Curran’s melancholy repartee to his medical attendant a few days before his decease. The doctor remarked that his patient’s cough was not improved. “That is odd,” remarked Curran, “for I have been practising all night!”
On Thursday, the 9th of October, Curran dined abroad for the last time with Mr. Richard (“Gentleman”) Jones, [78] of No. 14 Chapel Street, Grosvenor Place, for the purpose of being introduced to George Colman “the Younger.” The party, besides the host and hostess, consisted of Mr. Harris and Sir William Chatterton. Colman that evening was unusually brilliant, anticipating, by apt quotation and pointed remark, almost everything that Curran would have said. One comment of Curran’s, however, made a deep impression on all present. Speaking of Lord Byron’s ‘Fare thee well, and if for ever,’ he observed that “his lordship first weeps over his wife, and then wipes his eyes with the newspapers.” He left the dinner-table early, and, on going upstairs to coffee, either affected not to know or did not remember George Colman’s celebrity as a wit, and inquired of Mrs. Jones who that Mr. Colman was? Mr. Harris joined them at this moment, and apologised for his friend Colman engrossing so much of the conversation to himself, adding, that he was the spoiled child of society, and that even the Prince Regent listened with attention when George Colman talked. “Ay,” said Curran, with a
melancholy smile, “I now know who Colman is; we must both sleep in the same bed.”
The next morning Curran was seized with apoplexy, and continued speechless, though in possession of his senses, till the early part of Tuesday the 14th, when he sunk into lethargy, and towards evening died without a struggle; so tranquil, indeed, were the last moments of Curran, that those in the room were unable to mark the precise time when his bright spirit passed away from this earth. His age has been variously stated at sixty-seven, sixty-eight, and seventy.
The first lodging which John Banim, the Irish novelist, temporarily occupied in England (April, 1822) was in the house where his illustrious countryman had breathed his last, and from whence Banim removed to 13, Brompton Grove, as already noticed. Banim’s first wish, when he found himself in England, was to visit the scene of Curran’s death; led to the spot by a strong feeling of patriotic admiration, and finding, by a bill in the window, that lodgings were to be let there, he immediately took them, “that he might dream of his country,” as he energetically told the writer, “with the halo of Curran’s memory around him.”
Nearly opposite to Pelham Crescent is Pond Place, where Mr. Curtis, the eminent botanist, of whom more hereafter, died on the 7th July, 1799; and a little further on, on the same side of the way, appears Chelsea New Church, dedicated to St. Luke.
Signor Carlo Rovedino, a bass singer of some reputation, also lies buried in this churchyard. He was a native of Milan, and died on the 6th of October, 1822, aged seventy-one. The remains of Blanchard and Egerton, two actors of established character, repose here side by side. William Blanchard was what is termed “a useful comedian;” whatever part was assigned to him, he made the most of it. At the age of seventeen, he joined a provincial theatrical company at York, his native city, and in 1800, after fourteen years of laborious country practice, appeared at Covent Garden as Bob Acres in ‘The Rivals,’ and Crack in ‘The Turnpike Gate.’ At the time of his death, 9th May, 1835, he resided at No. 1, Camera Square, Chelsea. Blanchard had dined with a friend at Hammersmith, and left him to return home about six in the evening of Tuesday. On the following morning, at three o’clock, poor Blanchard was found lying in a ditch by the roadside, having been, as is supposed, seized by a fit; in the course of the evening he was visited by another attack, which was succeeded by one more violent on the Thursday, and on the following day he expired.