CURRAN AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. CHE title which I have prefixed to this volume strictly aks what I intend it to be. No labored detail, no tedious rative, no ambitious display of either fine writing or crit- investigation, but the simple, and, in some measure, the -drawn picture of a man who was a great ornament to country in which it was his misfortune to be born. Bee I proceed one step in my progress, the reader has a right know what claim there is on his credulity, or what are the alifications for the execution of such an undertaking. Early life, I had been so accustomed to hear the name of Curran entioned with admiration long before I could understand e reason, that I began to make his character an absolute icle in my literary creed, and to hold it in a kind of tradinal reverence. As the mind strengthened, an inquiry natally arose into the causes of such enviable celebrity. The n vivant referred me to his wit; the scholar to his elomence; the patriot to his ardent and undeviating principle. he questions on which he had voted were connected with e best days of Ireland, and his vote was always on the side Chis country; the causes which he had advocated were metimes of the most personal, and sometimes of the most ublic interest, and in these his eloquence was without a parlel; while his innumerable pleasantries formed, as it were, ne table currency of a people proverbially convivial. With uch a complication of proofs, my judgment readily confirmed what my schoolboy faith had received: his speeches becan my manual, his name almost my adoration; and in a litt poem,* composed while at the Temple, I gave him the ran which I thought he merited among the ornaments of h country. The subject of the poem gave it circulation, an either fame or friendship soon brought it to the notice of M Curran. When I was called to the bar he was on the bench and, not only bagless, but briefless, I was one day, with man an associate, taking the idle round of the hall of the Fou Courts, when a common friend told me he was commissione by the Master of the Rolls to invite me to dinner that day a the Priory, a little country villa about four miles from Dub lin. Those who recollect their first introduction to a reall great man, may easily comprehend my delight and my con sternation. Hour after hour was counted as it passed, and like a timid bride, I feared the one which was to make me happy. It came at last, the important five o'clock, the ne plus ultra of the guest who would not go dinnerless at Curran's Never shall I forget my sensations when I caught the first glimpse of the little man through the vista of his avenue. There he was, as a thousand times afterward I saw him, in a dress which you would imagine he had borrowed from his tip-staff his hands in his sides his face almost parallel with the horizon-his under lip protruded, and the impatient step and the eternal attitude only varied by the pause during which his eye glanced from his guest to his watch, and from his watch reproachfully to his dining-room. It was an invincible peculiarity; one second after five o'clock, and he would not wait for the viceroy. The moment he perceived me, he took me by the hand, said he would not have any one introduce me, and with a manner which I often thought was charmed, at once banished every apprehension, and completely familiarized me at the Priory. I had often seen Curranoften heard of him often read him but no man ever knew any thing about him who did not see him at his own table ■ the few whom he selected. He was a little convivial ! He soared in every region, and was at home in all; ouched every thing, and seemed as if he had created it; mastered the human heart with the same ease that he did violin. You wept, and you laughed, and you wondered; the wonderful creature who made you do all at will nevet it appear that he was more than your equal, and was ce willing, if you chose, to become your auditor. It is said Swift that his rule was to allow a minute's pause after he - concluded, and then, if no person took up the conversan, he recommenced. Curran had no conversational rule atever; he spoke from impulse; and he had the art so to _w you into a participation, that, though you felt an inferity, it was quite a contented one. Indeed, nothing could ceed the urbanity of his demeanor. At the time I speak The was turned of sixty, yet he was as playful as a child. ne extremes of youth and age were met in him; he had the perience of the one and the simplicity of the other. At five lock we sat down to dinner, during which the host gave aple indications that it was one of his happy days. He had smoody ones: there was no one more uncertain. Joyous as my anticipation of a delightful evening. But, alas! hat are the hopes of man? When the last dish had derted, Curran totally confounded me with a proposal, for hich I was any thing but prepared-" Mr. Phillips, as this the first of, I hope, your very many visits to the Priory, I Lay as well at once initiate you into the peculiarities of the Lace. You may observe, though the board is cleared, there re no preparations for a symposium: it all depends on you. Iy friends here generally prefer a walk after dinner. It is a veet evening; but if you wish for wine, say so without cernony." Even now can I see Curran's star-like eyes twinkng at the disappointment no doubt visible in mine. I had eard, and truly, that he was never more delightful than with alf a dozen friends, after dinner, over his bottle. The hope n which I had so long reveled was realized at last-and here came this infernal walk and the "sweet evening!" 0 how I would have hailed a thunder-storm! But, to say th truth, the sun was shining, and the birds were singing, an the flowers were blooming and breathing so sweetly on the autumn eve, that, wondering not at the wish of my compa ions, I also voted for the "walk." Never was man so myst fied. We took the walk, no doubt, but it was only to th drawing-room, where, over a dessert freshly culled from h gardens, and over wines for which his board was celebrated we passed those hours which formed an era in my life. I was the commencement of that happy intercourse which gav this world a charm it ought, perhaps, never to possess. Ye alas! that evening has its moral now. The tongue whic chained its hours is in the dust; the joyous few who felt it spell have followed; and all are gone save the mourner wh recalls it! There is, in fact, scarcely a page of these reco lections which does not fill me with a sense of solitude. "When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, And all but he departed." From that day till the day of his death, I was his intimate and his associate. He had no party to which I was not invited, and, party or no party, I was always welcome. He even went so far as to offer me apartments in his town residence, in Stephen's Green. He was then Master of the Rolls. How often since that day has he run over to me, to its minutest incident, the history of his life; often would he describe his early prospects, his crosses and his successes, his friends and his enemies, and all the varieties of a checkered existenceover whose road, for every mile he passed, he had, like Burke, ay a toll to envy. Such is the claim which I have to be Diographer. I disclaim being an elaborate, but I hope to - faithful one; withholding what was confidential, sketchwhat seemed peculiar or characteristic, writing chiefly 1 his own authority, and so far claiming to be authentic. Ir. Curran was born at Newmarket, a small village in the nty of Cork, on the 24th of July, 1750. His father, James -ran, seneschal of the manor, was possessed, besides the palrevenue of the office, of a very moderate income. Strange t may seem, their paternal ancestor came over to Ireland = of Cromwell's soldiers; and the most ardent patriot she er saw owed his origin to her most merciless and cruel plun-er! Old James Curran's education was pretty much in e ratio of his income. Very different, however, in point of ellectual endowments, was the mother of my friend, whose iden name, Philpot, he bore himself and preserved in his mily. From his account, she must have been a very extradinary woman. Humble in her station, she was of course educated; but nature amply compensated her for any foritous deficiencies in that respect. Witty and eloquent, she as the delight of her own circle, and the great chronicle and bitress of her neighborhood. Her legends were the tradions of the "olden time," told with a burning tongue, and choed by the heart of many a village Hampden. Her wit as the record of the rustic fireside; and the village lyric and ne village jest received their alternate tinge from the truly ational romance or humor of her character. Little Jacky, s he was then called, used to hang with ecstasy upon her acents he repeated her tales - he re-echoed her jests - he aught her enthusiasm ; and often afterward, when he was The delight of the senate and the ornament of the bar, did he poast with tears that any merit he had he owed to the tuition f that affectionate and gifted mother. Indeed, there can not De the least doubt that the character of the man is often molded from the accidental impression of the childhood; and ne must have been but an inaccurate observer who did not |