people against the state, and of the state against the people. If Erskine had lived in the dark times of the second James, it might have saved his country from the pain of reading the events of those days, when the court could procure a bench, but the subject could not find a bar. It is with an emotion difficult to describe that I see how easily our hearts are betrayed into an exaggerated estimation of those we are disposed to love. You are pleased to bespeak the continuance of my poor efforts in the cause of Ireland. I can not without regret reflect how feeble they would be, but I am fully consoled in the idea that they would be as unnecessary as inefficient. It is still no more than justice to myself to say, that if an opportunity should occur, and God be pleased to let it be accompanied by health, my most ardent affections would soon find the channel in which they flowed so long. A devoted attachment to our country can never expire but with my last breath. It is a sentiment that has been the companion of my life; and though it may have sometimes led to what you kindly call sacrifices, it has also given me the most invaluable consolation. And even when the scene shall come to a close, I trust that sentiment shall be the last to leave me, and that I shall derive some enjoyment in the reflection that I have been a zealous though an unprofitable servant."

It was during Mr. Curran's occupancy of the Rolls' bench that I had the happiness of making his acquaintance. It soon became intimacy, and so continued to his death. A higher privilege could scarcely be enjoyed than his society conferred. Its simplicity was its greatest charm. He could afford to discard his greatness, and he did so. There was nothing of the senator, or the orator, or the judicial dignitary, or the superior in any way about him; but he was Curran, better and greater than all of them combined. Ostentation was a stranger to his home, so was formality of any kind. His table was simple, his wines choice, his welcome warm, and his conversation a luxury indeed. His habits were peculiarsome of them, perhaps, eccentric. For instance, an old per

son was scarcely ever seen within his dwelling. I can remember but three, and they were professionally connected with himself or his court. Although, as has been seen, risking his life recklessly enough, he had an aversion to any thing that was associated with death. Hence the aspect of old age depressed him, while youth's joyousness seemed to revive his own. Of his early bar associates, whose countenances indicated the ravages of time, I never remember one as a guest at the Priory. But it was a daily custom, when his court had risen, to stroll through the hall, recruiting his dinner company from the juniors. There were seldom more than half a dozen, and it was on such occasions he shone to most advantage. No one who did not see him when he was at his best can have any idea of his exquisite companionship. There was undoubtedly a reverse to the medal. He was occasionally the dullest of the dull, weighed down to the earth by some constitutional dejection. He was very far from being a happy man. Social misfortune aggravated a melancholy which was inherent in his nature. When irritated or dis-composed, he could render himself, as I have heard, though I had no experience of it, inconceivably disagreeable. This, however, was rare, and, when he was in one of his happy veins, no one ever equaled him. Lord Byron wrote of him that he had fifty faces: he might have added fifty voices and fifty natures, in the assumption of which he, for the moment, merged his own identity. His powers of imitation were marvelous and irresistible. He was the parish priest, the Munster peasant, the coal-quay fish-woman, the jovial squireen, and the illiterate esquire, each in their turn, and each a facsimile. He not merely aped the manner, but he either displayed the mind of the individual, or ascribed to him some drollery which much enhanced the humor of the assumption. Thus, when asked by Lord Byron to give him some idea of Mr. Grattan, bowing lowly to the ground, he expressed "his gratitude that neither in person or gesture was he obnoxious to imitation." That great man was composed of peculiarities.

In stock stories his treasury was rich, and the perilous attempt to draw on it was generally assigned to me. However, failure was rare. He was too simple to suspect, and too facile to refuse. For instance, when the vulgar pomposity of the Mayor of Cork was to be elicited, the wine was tasted, the lips were smacked, and the glass held up scientifically to the candle. 'Mr. Curran, this strikes me as very fine claret.” "O dear! you are very good to say so; it's the red wax, the best I have. I can't compliment you as my cousin the Mayor of Cork did the lord lieutenant when he was entertaining him: 'Mr. Mayor, this is very choice wine.' 'Does your excellency think so? Why, it is good wine, your excellency, but it's nothing at all to some I've got in my cellar.'" And then he followed up his own jest with the short, sharp, dry, familiar laugh, which he never refused to that of another. When Curran really enjoyed his evening, and the bottle had circulated sufficiently, it was sometimes his custom, when the weather permitted, to adjourn to the gardens. The walk was refreshing, and always preluded grilled bones, and plenty of what in Ireland was then called THE MATARIALS"—namely, scalding water, lemon, sugar, and the pottheen-for a definition of which, see Miss Edgeworth. There were always beds for the guests at the Priory—a precaution by no means inconsiderate. When breakfast came, it was somewhat problematical how the party were to return. If all was propitious, the carriage was in waiting; if a cloud was seen, however, the question came, "Gentlemen, how do you propose getting to court?" Ominous was the silence which ushered in the "Richard, harness the mule to the jaunting car, and take the gentlemen to town!" One of this worthy animal's most favorite pastimes was to carry the company into a pool of water which lay by the road side! Of course the host knew nothing of the mule's jocularity, and most certainly it never was suggested to him by any refusal of an invitation to the Priory.

summons.

Although himself so admirable a mimic, he by no means

relished being made a subject. One day, being apprised that a gentleman then present personated him to the life, Curran affected to request a performance; entreaty and evasion were more than once repeated, when he terminated the scene: "Well, indeed, my dear W., I'm sadly disappointed. It must be an amusing thing to see a cat running across a piano, and calling it music."

Mr. Curran sprang from the people,* and he not only never forgot it, but was proud of it. His associates were not of the aristocracy, if, indeed, such a term was applicable to the very

* Mr. Curran was particularly sensitive to any mark of respect or confidence on the part of the lower orders. In one of his little poems he commemorates with much satisfaction.

"A croppy heifer spared by Holt."

This Holt was an extraordinary man. He was a farmer and dealer in wool, originally keeping aloof from politics. Of a liberal cast of mind, however, he refused to take any part against his Roman Catholic countrymen. This, in such times, was quite sufficient to render him a marked man, and being so, a domiciliary visit was paid to his house on the breaking out of the rebellion of 1798. He was not at home, and the visitors burned the house and property to ashes! Rendered desperate by this, he repaired to a cave in the Devil's Glen, in the county of Wicklow. Here he found some United Irishmen, refugees like himself, and, in the frame of mind in which he was, was easily persuaded to take the oath and become their general. In a week he was at the head of one hundred and sixteen men, and many hundreds afterward joined him. He became an admirable guerilla chief, and, during six months, kept the whole power of the government at bay. Well acquainted with the Wicklow mountains, and possessing both skill and intrepidity, Holt proved himself more than a match for the king's officers. At length some noble traits of character which he exhibited induced Lord Powerscourt to open a negotiation with him. Holt consented to expatriate himself to New South Wales, which he did; but soon receiving a free pardon, he returned to Ireland, where he died in 1826. Holt was a very superior man of his class, and proved himself a formidable antagonist. He wrote and published his life. His men, in one of their forays, carried off, with other cattle, a cow of Curran's, whose house was near the mountains. However, when Holt saw the initials "J. P. C." branded on one of the horns, he guessed to whom the animal belonged, and sent it back with a complimentary apology.

arrogant and very ignorant persons who at that time usurped it in Ireland. He heartily despised them. He never was of the Castle or their set. Before the Union he was generally in opposition, and after that the viceroy appeared to him only as a titled memorial of the country's degradation. He used to talk, indeed, of his poor cottage, as he called it, having been graced by the choicest spirits of the land-not culled for their birth from a dull peerage, nor for their possessions from an ignorant proprietary, but from men risen from the ranks— from the Duquerys, Yelvertons, and Grattans, whose personal merits "flung pedigree into the shade." There was in his own manner that easy and urbane courteousness which, if not derived from nature, is very difficult of acquisition.

Alienated from the bustle of the bar, and having relinquished the occupations of the bench, Mr. Curran's mind began to prey upon itself, and the dejection to which even his youth had been subject grew with his years into confirmed hypochondriasm. This he vainly endeavored to dispel by traveling. He paid Paris another visit in 1814, but it was only to find that

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Cœlum, non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt.” He saw nothing there but "close, dirty streets, stewing playhouses, and a burning sun," which "completed the extreme dejection of his spirits, and made him fit for nothing." The following letter, which his son kindly permits me to insert, reveals but too distinctly the despondence under which he suffered. It is addressed to our common and most excellent friend, Mr. Lube, a member both of the English and the Irish bars:

"PARIS, August 3, 1814.

"Dear L.,—I received your kind letter, and thank you for it; 'levius fit,' &c. When I came here I intended to have scribbled some little journal of what I met. I am now sorry I did not-things so soon become familiar, and appear not worth notice; besides, I have not been well since I came here. If I had written and sent it to you, it would have been