Mr. Grattan in his sedan-chair—The “point of honour”—Mr. Egan’s gift of second-sight—The guillotine and executioner—Colonel Burr, vice-president of the United States, and Mr. Randolph—Mr. Grattan in masquerade—Death of that illustrious patriot, and strictures on his interment in Westminster Abbey—Letter from the author to his son, Henry Grattan, Esq.

Many anecdotes occur to me of my late respected friend, Mr. Grattan. There are but few, however, which can throw fresh light upon a character so long and so generally known, and which exhibited unvarying excellence.

I never met any man who possessed the genuine elements of courage in a higher degree than Mr. Grattan,—in whom dwelt a spirit of mild, yet impetuous bravery, which totally banished all apprehensions of danger.

I have already given some account of my contest for Dublin city, and of the circumstances connecting my illustrious friend therewith. On the evening of the first day of polling, whilst I sat at dinner, a servant announced that a gentleman in a sedan-chair was at the door and wished to speak to me. I immediately went out, and finding it was Grattan, begged him to enter the house; upon which he desired his chair to be taken into the hall. His manner was so agitated and mysterious, that I felt quite alarmed, and feared something untoward had happened to him. We went into a parlour, where, without any introductory observation, he exclaimed—“Barrington, I must have a shot at that r——l!”

“Heavens!” said I, “what r——l?”

“There is but one such!” cried he:—“Giffard!”

“My dear Grattan,” I replied, “you cannot be serious:—there is no ground for a challenge on your part: if he survives your words, no bullet could have effect upon him.”

“Ah, that won’t do, Barrington!” exclaimed Grattan: “he objected to my voting for you, because, he said, I was a ‘discarded corporator.’”

“That was not intended as personal,” said I; “and even had he gained his point, would it not be an honour for you to be removed from such a corporation?”

“Barrington,” rejoined he, “it’s of no use!—I must have a shot at the man: I can’t sleep unless you go to him for me.”

This I peremptorily refused; arguing and reasoning with him again and again: he still continuing obstinate, I begged him to go and ask the advice of Mr. George Ponsonby.

“Oh no,” replied he, “Ponsonby is a wise man;—wiser than either of us: in fact, he is sometimes too wise and too peaceable. You must go to Giffard:—perhaps it may not be wise, but I know you prefer your friend’s honour to his safety.—Come, now, get your hat, Barrington!”

Upward of an hour elapsed before I could even half convince him that he was wrong; but at length I hit on the only argument that could make any impression on him, and extracted a promise that he would let the affair drop:—“Grattan,” said I, “recollect matters, and have consideration for me.” He started:—“Yes,” continued I, “you know it was solely on my account that you exposed yourself to any insult; and do you think I could remain an idle spectator, in a conflict whereof I was the cause?—If you do not promise me that you will go ‘no further in this business,’ I shall instantly make the thing personal with Giffard myself.”

For a moment he was silent, then smiling—“Coriolanus,” said he, “replied to his parent—‘Mother! you have conquered!’—I will go no further.”

“I humbly thank you,” said I, “for making an old woman of me!”—He then went away, as I conceived, tolerably satisfied.—He had come thus privately (for the curtains were drawn round his chair) to avoid suspicion being excited of his intentions, and the authorities consequently interfering to prevent the combat. My surprise may be imagined, when, at six o’clock the next morning, I was roused by the same announcement of a gentleman in a chair! I knew it must be Grattan, and directed him to be brought in.

I had now the same game to play over again. He said he had not slept a wink all night, from thinking about “that Giffard;” and that he “must have a shot at him.” Another course now suggested itself to me, and I told him I had, on consideration, determined, whether right or wrong, that, if he persevered, I would wait upon the sheriff and get him bound over to keep the peace. He was not pleased at this, but had no option: he strode about the room, taking long steps and frequently raising himself up, as was his custom whenever agitated.—I was peremptory; and ultimately he agreed not to revive the subject during the election.

Mr. Egan (one of the roughest-looking persons possible), being at one time a supporter of government, made virulent philippics, in the Irish House of Commons, against the French Revolution. His figure was coarse and bloated, and his dress not over-elegant withal; in fact, he had by no means the look of a member of Parliament.

One evening he fell foul of a speech of Grattan’s; and among other absurdities, said in his paroxysm, that the right honourable gentleman’s speech had a tendency to introduce the guillotine into the very body of the House: indeed, he almost thought he could already perceive it before him!—(“Hear him! hear him!” echoed from Sir Boyle Roche.) Grattan good-humouredly replied, that the honourable member must have a vastly sharper sight than he had. He certainly could see no such thing: “but though,” added Grattan, looking with his glass toward Egan, “I may not see the guillotine, yet methinks I can perceive the executioner!”

“Order! order!” shouted Sir Boyle Roche: “Disorder! disorder!” cried Curran:—a general laugh prevented any further observation.

Colonel Burr, who had been vice-president of America, and probably would have been the next president, but for his unfortunate duel with General Hamilton, came over to England, and was made known to me by Mr. Randolph, of Virginia, a gentleman with whom I was very intimate. He requested I would introduce him to Mr. Grattan, whom he was excessively anxious to see. Colonel Burr was not a man of prepossessing appearance—rough-featured, and neither dressy nor polished—but a well-informed, sensible man; and though not a particularly agreeable, yet an instructive companion.^[63]

People in general form extravagant anticipations regarding eminent persons. The idea of a great orator and Irish chief carried with it, naturally enough, corresponding notions of physical powers, elegance, vigour, and dignity. Such was Colonel Burr’s mistake, I believe, about Mr. Grattan, and I took care not to undeceive him.

We went to my friend’s house, who was to leave London next day. I announced that Colonel Burr (from America), Mr. Randolph, and myself, wished to pay our respects; and the servant informed us that his master would receive us in a short time, but was at the moment much occupied on business of consequence. Burr’s expectations were of course on the alert! Randolph also was anxious to be presented to the great Grattan; and both impatient for the entrance of this Demosthenes. At length the door opened, and in hopped a small bent figure,—meagre, yellow, and ordinary; one slipper and one shoe; his breeches’ knees loose; his cravat hanging down; his shirt and coat-sleeves tucked up high, and an old hat upon his head.

This apparition saluted the strangers very courteously:—asked (without any introduction) how long they had been in England, and immediately proceeded to make inquiries about the late General Washington and the revolutionary war. My companions looked at each other:—their replies were costive, and they seemed quite impatient to see Mr. Grattan! I could scarcely contain myself; but determined to let my eccentric, unconscious countryman take his course: he appeared quite delighted to see his visitors, and was the most inquisitive person in the world. Randolph was far the tallest, and most dignified-looking man of the two, gray-haired and well-dressed: Grattan, therefore, took him for the late vice-president, and addressed him accordingly. Randolph at length begged to know if they could shortly have the honour of seeing Mr. Grattan!—Upon which, our host (not doubting but they knew him) conceived it must be his son James for whom they inquired, and said, he believed he had that moment wandered out somewhere to amuse himself!

This completely disconcerted the Americans: they looked at each other, then at me, and were about to make their bow and their exit, when I thought it high time to explain; and, taking Colonel Burr and Mr. Randolph respectively by the hand, introduced them to the Right Honourable Henry Grattan.

I never saw people stare so, or more embarrassed! Grattan himself now perceiving the cause, heartily joined in my merriment:—he pulled down his shirt-sleeves, pulled up his stockings, and, in his own irresistible way, apologised for the outrÉ figure he cut, assuring them he had totally overlooked his toilet, in anxiety not to keep them waiting; that he was returning to Ireland next morning, and had been busily packing up his books and papers in a closet full of dust and cobwebs! This circumstance rendered the interview more interesting: the subject of colonial independence recommenced, and Grattan shone. The Americans were charmed with their reception; and, after a protracted visit, retired highly gratified: whilst Grattan returned again to his books and cobwebs, regretting very heartily that his immediate departure prevented him from having the pleasure of their further society.

Nobody lamented more than myself the loss of this distinguished man and true patriot, who, as every one knows, breathed his last in the British metropolis, after a long and painful illness; and the public papers soon after announced, to my astonishment and chagrin, the fact of preparations being on foot for his interment in Westminster Abbey! I say, to my astonishment and chagrin; because it was sufficiently plain that this affected mark of respect was only meant to restrain the honest enthusiasm which might have attended his funeral obsequies in his own country.

The subtle minister then ruling the councils of Britain, knew full well that vanity is the falsest guide of human judgment, and therefore held out that Westminster Abbey (the indiscriminate dormitory of generals and spies—of ministers, admirals, and poets,) was the most honourable resting-place for the remains of an Irish patriot. This lure was successful; and, accordingly, he who had made British ministers tremble in the cabinet—whose forbearance they had propitiated by a tender of the king’s best palace in Ireland^[64]—and whose fame they had, nevertheless, endeavoured to destroy, and whose principles they had calumniated,—was escorted to the grave by the most decided of his enemies, and (as if in mockery of his country and himself) inhumed among the inveterate foes of Ireland and of Grattan! It is mean to say that Lord Castlereagh had latterly changed his opinion, and become civil to his illustrious opponent:—so much the worse! he thereby confessed that, in 1797, and the two following years, he had laboured to destroy an innocent man and to disgrace an Irish patriot, who, during a great portion of that period, lay on the bed of sickness.

The Duke of Leinster, doubtless with the best possible motives, but with a view of the subject differing from my own, suggested that Ireland should do honour to her patriot son, by erecting a cenotaph to his memory. This, I must confess, appears to me (I speak of it merely as matter of opinion) to be nothing more than cold-blooded mockery—a compliment diminutive and empty. Toward such a monument I would not subscribe one farthing:—but if the revered ashes of my friend could be restored to his country, there is no Irishman who (in proportion to his means) would go beyond myself in contributing to raise a monumental column which should outvie the pillars dedicated in Dublin to the glorious butcheries of Trafalgar and Waterloo: while these are proudly commemorated, no national pile records the more truly glorious triumphs of 1782—nor the formation of that irresistible army of volunteers which (in a right cause) defied all the power of England! But my voice shall not be silent: and deeply do I regret the untoward fate by which this just tribute to national and individual virtues has devolved upon the feeble powers of an almost superannuated writer.

Ireland gave me birth and bread; and though I am disgusted with its present state, I love the country still. I have endeavoured to give (in a more important work) some sketches of its modern history at the most prosperous epochas, with gloomy anecdotes of its fall as an independent kingdom; and if God grants me a little longer space, I shall publish my honest ideas of the ruin to which the British Empire will not long remain blind, if she continue to pursue the same system (which seven hundred years have proved to be a destructive one) in that misgoverned country.

Extract of a letter from Sir Jonah Barrington to the present Henry Grattan, Esq., M.P.:—

“My dear Grattan,

“I regret your not receiving my letter, in reply to yours, written immediately after the lamented departure of my honoured friend. In that letter I proposed forthwith to publish the sequel of my character of Mr. Grattan, accompanied with his portrait and some additional observations. I had composed the sequel, much to my own satisfaction, as the continuation of his character promised in the number of my historical work where I say ‘his career is not yet finished.’

“Your last letter did not reach me for five months, and having received no reply to mine, I threw the manuscript into the fire, keeping no copy; it was scarcely consumed, however, before I repented the having done so.

“But now permit an old and sensitive friend to expostulate a little with you, in the simple garb of queries:—

“Why, and for what good reason,—with what policy, or on what feeling, are the bones of the most illustrious of Irishmen suffered to moulder in the same ground with his country’s enemies?

“Why suffer him to be escorted to the grave by the mock pageantry of those whose political vices and corruptions ravished from Ireland every thing which his talent and integrity had obtained for her?

“Why send his countrymen on a foreign pilgrimage, to worship the shrine of their canonised benefactor? Were not the cathedrals of Ireland worthy to be honoured by his urn,—or the youths of Erin to be animated by knowing that they possessed his ashes? Can it be gratifying to the feelings of his countrymen to pay the sexton of a British abbey a mercenary shilling for permission even to see the grave-stone of your parent?^[65]

“You were deceived by the blandishments of our mortal enemy: he knew that political idolatry has great power, and excites great influence in nations. The shrine of a patriot has often proved to be the standard of liberty; and it was therefore good policy in a British statesman to suppress our excitements:—the mausoleum of Rousseau is raised in France—the tradition of Grattan only will remain to his compatriots.

“He lived the life—he died the death—but he does not sleep in the tomb of an Irish patriot! England has taken away our constitution, and even the relics of its founder are retained through the duplicity of his enemy.

“You have now my sentiments on the matter, and by frankly expressing them, I have done my duty to you, to myself, and to my country.

“Your ever affectionate and sincere friend,