Life of Edmond Malone/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
1769–1777.
His return from Spa, improved by the excursion, took place ere winter set in. To Dublin he proceeded without delay—thence sought the courts for as much employment as attorneys and clients would bestow; and joined the Munster circuit. Here he remained four or five years with the usual fortune of a young barrister—sometimes occupied by a case, sometimes by the state of the nation, always an important business to men who have little else to do. Allusions to Dublin business occur in his correspondence. One friend wishes to “hear of him in long pleadings in Chancery.” Another inquires after “briefs” in which he was interested. It is likewise remembered by the lady who now occupies Baronston, that in a suit between her father and the then Marquis of Drogheda, Edmond, who was engaged in the cause, exhibited abilities which promised future eminence.
No diligence to this end was neglected on his own part. A manuscript volume of his law studies now lies before me, indexed for reference like a merchant’s ledger. It consists of about one hundred and sixty pages, for the most part closely written, strongly indicative of the pains taken upon other subjects with a specific purpose in view.[1]
His chief correspondent at this period was Chetwood, who invites him from Cork to “Skull” to the “enjoyment of such music as he may not often hear.” He likewise sends verses to relieve the “soporific influences of law.” And of one of their chosen mutual friends, a young barrister on the same circuit, and also a “verse-man,” thus writes:—“I should lament your fate on every circuit much more than I do had you not such a companion as Hussey. You may talk of wretchedness, but you can neither of you be unhappy together. His petit extempore is delightful, as is all that he either writes or thinks.” On another occasion he mentions warmly “Hussey’s admirable Epithalamium.”
In 1771 a short visit was paid to England, led by some instinct to map out the ground on which he was ultimately destined to abide. Hence he sent Chetwood Dr. Johnson’s pamphlet on the Falkland Islands; when, as an example of the erroneous views formed by even educated persons in remote districts of eminent men living in the world, he asks whether the great moralist “is not venal?” He writes likewise for the best edition of the celebrated anonymous hero of the day, adding:—“However insecure Junius may be from criticism, Johnson is still more so.”
Ill health overtook him while at his father’s country residence, Shinglas, Westmeath, in 1772, and occasioned some months’ confinement. The devoted attention shown by his sister Catherine on this occasion was never forgotten. It would appear also that this incident added strength to the regrets that ill-fortune still condemned him to the hapless condition of a bachelor.
In Dublin, the absence of briefs produced divided allegiance between the newspapers and the Forum. He who could not officially talk law, might talk or write politics; and those paper squibs and crackers to which allusion has been made, found vent in abundance. To these, Malone makes allusion in some of his letters, but without such distinctness as serve to mark his own, excepting one. It is ironical; and produced probably from some new ideas started on political economy. He laments in a well-handled paper the notorious improvidence of so poor a people as the Irish, who devour eggs by millions, which if permitted to become fowls would be of more than twenty times the value! For papers of more serious import, he calls upon the great orator and patriot of the day, Henry Flood, to testify to his industry when addressing a Dublin constituency on his own account, soon afterwards. He was of course patriotic in opinions. Who at such an age is not? And what theme more prolific to Irishmen than Ireland?
Toward the beginning of 1773, his brother, then in London, communicated details of a war among the Peers,—no less than five of that order, and an honourable, being concerned—Lords Townshend, Bellamont, Ligonier, Ancram, his friend Charlemont, and Mr. Dillon. The former two had quarrelled in Ireland. No fighting however could take place with a Viceroy in office. But after the usual complications on such occasions, it was settled in Marylebone Fields by Lord Bellamont being shot in the side, very narrowly escaping death. Lord Charlemont had a commission as mediator, but prudently avoided the thankless responsibility of second. No allusion to this occurs in his biography; although he and Lord Ancram disclosed their part of it in the newspapers.
The reply of Edmond, February, 1773, written in some anxiety, was no less warlike. He describes in a long letter a duel in Dublin between Colonel Blaquiere, who had just arrived in Ireland as Public Secretary, and Mr. Bagnell, a fiery member of a Tipperary family. Nothing could have been more unprovoked by the former or more unwarrantable on the part of the latter. But the account shows the stuff of which duels were commonly made—a sanguinary spirit, ferocity, misconception, ill -temper, pride, irritability, and—nonsense.
The interest of Malone in his brother’s account of the affair in England, arose from the implication of his friend—for near acquaintance had now ripened into friendship with Lord Charlemont. All Ireland took a similar interest in him. In return, he entertained the strongest attachment for her; and certainly no country could point to a more honest, amiable, pureminded man. Edmond and he first met at the tables of his father and uncle, where much of the genius and wit of Dublin were to be found. Their politics and tastes were then similar; and substantial private qualities ripened into sincere regard. The topics of the moment, as being too exciting, were often forgotten in their correspondence. Literature, criticism, and rare books, frequently superseded politics, poetry, and law. In fact, the former three in quiet times formed the natural tastes of both; sought by one as relief from private disquiet, by the other in order to forget for a time those ferments in which commercial injustice and parliamentary control from the sister island had embroiled his country.
Possessed of sound common sense, his lordship had likewise that moderation of tone in which Irishmen are sometimes deficient. He would go as far as prudent men may fairly go, but no farther. He was the drag-chain that kept that mighty engine, the volunteers of 1782, from running over their leaders. Altogether he was, perhaps, the most popular man ever seen in Ireland—but he wanted one faculty to become the greatest—that was the gift of public speaking. The want of it threw him back upon his books and pen. He wrote, it is said, pretty largely; but from timidity and reserve shrunk from the honours of the press. His letters, however, make us fully acquainted with the man. An epistolary intercourse with Malone commenced soon after the removal of the latter to London, which continued nearly to the close of life. These furnish evidence of scholar-like propensities, pursued in those useful and innocent hours which thought and intelligence can win in its library when the outside world is contentious or adverse. Notices of these will hereafter appear.
In the spring of 1774 Malone lost his father, who evinced undiminished affection in the gift of an income which insured moderate independence. Politics were still kept in view; but in exchange for squibs and pamphlets he sought the usual family destination, a seat in Parliament. He even aimed at the University of Dublin. Among his papers is the draft of a speech in his own handwriting, spoken on that occasion, which rattles away in choice candidate-style to the constituent body.
In thishe speaks of his nomination and address in the previous summer; and of his relationship to Anthony Malone, admitted to be one of the most wise, able and disinterested men living, who, unlike most others in Parliament, had done everything for his country and nothing for his connections. Yet even of him he was independent. “For, a few months ago, I obtained, at too high a price indeed, an honourable independence; nor shall any motive on earth induce me to forfeit it.” He would regard no private tie, no relative in public affairs, but deem himself a trustee merely for the people; that he had testified this spirit in a private capacity in opposing the corrupt government of Lord Townshend—to which the worthy friend, nominated at the same time as himself, and another gentleman, the greatest orator in this or, perhaps, any other kingdom, would bear testimony.[2] He thus characterizes the mass of public men of the day: “Who are most unqualified for their offices—who accumulate place upon place, sinecure upon sinecure—who are so eager to obtain the wages of the day ere the day has passed over them, as to be emphatically, and not improperly, termed ready-money voters?”
If this be even a tolerably correct picture of Irish peers and commoners—and most Irish writers unfortunately agree in the sketch—who, however they may abuse it, can wonder at the Union? What honest man can regret the extinction of a mass of corruption that formed a standing national disgrace?
From newspaper paragraphs and essays, the next usual step of candidates in letters is to editorship; and this office he now assumed. It was an edition of Goldsmith’s works, commenced in 1776, printed in Dublin the following year, and republished by Evans, a London bookseller, in 1780. Here we find his characteristic love of accuracy. He first drew forth from Dr. Wilson, Fellow of the College, memoranda of the poet and his tutor (February 24th, 1776), which came into my hands in the search for materials for his biography, and are noticed elsewhere.[3]
In 1776, the death of his celebrated uncle, Anthony, without issue, gave Baronston his seat, and a fortune to his elder brother,[4] For a time this produced no change in the arrangements of Edmond. But having now none whose wishes it was necessary to consult, or whose opinions carried control, he seems to have contemplated withdrawal from the Bar, and the adoption of a more quiet and studious career.
The turmoil of contentious life, the power to bait or to endure daily baiting in the courts, was probably not to his taste. It was provoking to take the side he was paid for, not that which he preferred—to enter for hours on a warfare of words which should endeavour to make that right which he could not but suspect or know to be wrong. He had not yet, perhaps, arrived at the conviction, that those were mere tricks of trade, of being to the ear what conjuring is to the eye, efforts to make things appear as they are not; and therefore adverse to the taste of a straightforward man. The state of his heart—that impressible and unsophisticated organ as it proved to be—no doubt had its weight; and when these were balanced against London society, authors, letters, libraries, and repositories of every learned pursuit for learned or studious men, we cannot wonder at the preference at length given to the English metropolis.
Of his early attachment to the literature of the stage we are left in no doubt. During his visits to London, persons who were familiar with it formed his favourite friends. Among others was ||Author:George Steevens|George Steevens]], the editor of Shakspeare; who found in his young Irish acquaintance, in the same pursuit, no probable cause for that rivalry which might be apprehended from others of more name and experience. He even lent him to copy, while still resident in Ireland, his own transcript of Langbaine’s Dramatic Poets. These volumes, largely annotated, had belonged to Oldys; were bought by Dr. Birch at the sale of his books and papers; lent to the Reverend Mr. (afterwards Bishop) Percy to copy; by him lent to Steevens for a similar purpose; and by the latter to Malone, whose interleaved copy with large additions, now in the Bodleian Library, forms another monument of unflagging industry.
He writes his name at the commencement of the work, 1777, with a short notice of Langbaine. At the conclusion of the fourth volume it is added—“Mem.—Finished this transcript, March 30, 1777,” with his name. At a later period, the handwriting still his, but more unsteady, it is further noticed—“I left Ireland, May 1st, 1777, and settled in London.” In another place we find—“Since it (the transcript) was made in 1777 I have made numerous additions to it—1787.” The date of his advent to London, about which there had been some doubt, is therefore settled by himself. His first abode was No. 7, Marylebone Street, where he continued till 1779. Thence a change took place to 55 (often written 58), Queen Ann Street, East, re-named subsequently Foley Place, where he continued for the remainder of life the pursuit of studies insuring content and reputation, and the society of friends, many of them the most distinguished men of the age.
His correspondence with Lord Charlemont commenced about this busy political period. Yet amid great national excitement (in Ireland) their subjects were almost exclusively literary. Politics gave way to books, war to criticism, heroes to writers. While volunteer armies, American reverses, and threatened French invasions, had nearly withdrawn the native country of these philosophers from her allegiance to England, they—one of them soon afterward a conspicuous actor in the scene—scarcely permitted the heats of the time to be distinguished in their letters. At length the Commoner found courage to disclose to the Peer that his criticisms, disquisitions, and letters were likely to become books;—their subject, Shakspeare.
Little connected as the subjects may seem, frequent explorations of black-letter law—fond as he was of going to the basis of all things—led him onward to the taste for its poetry and dramatic literature. “The love of things ancient,” says Bacon, “doth argue stayedness;” and between a staid lawyer and staid critic, both being devoted to the balance of evidence, there is perhaps less difference than at first view may appear. On previous visits to London, Johnson and Steevens’ Shakspeare was full in the current of popular favour. No subject was more likely to attract a young man of literary predilections; while occasional personal glances obtained at the master-critic himself tended to confirm his reverence. The topic was open to moderate as well as to the highest talents; and distinguished men of at least two previous ages had attempted explanations of the obscurities of the great poet, or often mystified what they could not successfully explain. Ample room yet remained for trials of skill by others. Every discussion added to the fame of the subject. But simple admiration was deemed insufficient without comment. Several therefore wrote upon him who were little entitled to write upon anything—and as the worm thrives upon the carcase of the author, critics sought their peculiar nutriment or distinction by fastening and fattening upon his fame.
Time has so little diminished this passion, or rather mania, that it has grown nearly to a literary nuisance. Editors and commentators upon Shakspeare appear at every turn in all societies. In the club-house we meet three or four of a morning; in the park, see them meditating by the Serpentine, or under a tree in Kensington Gardens; no dinner table is without one or two; in the theatre you view them by dozens. Volume after volume is poured out in note, comment, conjecture, new reading, statement or mis-statement, contradiction, or variation of all kinds.
Reviews, magazines, and newspapers, repeat these with so little mercy on the reader, as to give occasional emendations of their own. Some descant upon his sentiments, some upon his extravagances, some upon his wonderful creations or flights of imagination, some upon his language or phraseology. Several suppose that he wrote more plays than he acknowledged; others, that he fathered more than he had written. While the last opinions are still more original and extraordinary—that his name is akin to a myth, and that he wrote no plays at all! Every new aspirant in this struggle for distinction aims to push his predecessor from his stool. Hero-worship sinks to nothing compared with this interminable author-worship. We are not permitted for a week together to think for ourselves, but so crammed by successive volumes as to have no power of literary digestion left. And, however worthy of all honour the object may be, we become weary of such busy, yet useless or trifling adorers, and are tempted to exclaim in an agony of impatience—when is this clatter of criticism to end?
Men of talents can often throw interest into even a hackneyed subject; and thus Dr. Johnson did not disdain to participate in the work of inferior writers. But he looked at the poet as a great whole. He felt his vastness and saw his weaknesses, but would not place him upon the literary dissecting table to be sliced into a thing of words, syllables, or phrases, for the gratification of the carrion critics around him. Taking the range of a capacious and original mind, he has said in that preface, which will endure as long as the volumes it introduced, all that one great man can say in honour of another still greater. Inferior artists were left to hunt up smaller matters. Research, such as the occasion required—long, laborious, minute, often irksome—defied his eyes, his patience, and his time of life.
Upon his colleague in the edition, Mr. George Steevens, devolved this portion of the duty. As a critic, he had several qualifications—a scholar, a wit, of ready perceptions, an appetite for work, and not indisposed to those antiquarian pursuits required by the undertaking. He did not, however, intend so wide a range in research as the subject of this Memoir had in view; nor was he of course so successful. Neither did he in a private capacity win the favourable opinion of contemporaries. He had the unhappy art of making enemies. He is represented as sarcastic, ill-natured, jealous, envious, self-sufficient, and while occasionally prone to a kind or generous action, quite as ready to evince bitter malignity for small or fancied offences.
Malone, from the first, seems to have felt that exclusive of what had been done for Shakspeare, there were several topics yet untouched, or scarcely touched, open to a devoted inquirer. The chronology of his plays, the stories on which they were grounded, the history of the stage during his occupation of it, the poetry and dramas of other writers of the time, the incidents of their lives, successes, and discouragements—all tended to throw light upon the principal figure.
Upon this extended canvas he set to work with characteristic zeal. No publication of the age of Elizabeth, her predecessors or successors, in the form of poem, drama, pamphlet, or miscellaneous tract, was neglected. Manuscripts, wherever found, were carefully consulted; no expense or application was spared to exhume something like truth and substance out of the graveyards of time. Collectors, antiquaries, and college men, whose lives had been spent in storing their shelves or their memories with knowledge of the past, were solicited to disburse such acquisitions as could be turned to account.
Who, fond of literature, shall not sympathize with such an inquirer—his hopes, discoveries, disappointments? How often is he befriended by chance! A date, a name, a fact, an allusion, a reference, however slight, even to an unpromising object, suddenly starts from some obscure corner to gladden his eye and heart, and give assurance that he who works diligently shall not work in vain. Even when positive facts fail, there may be ground for plausible conjecture. A slender clue may track a labyrinth. History is made up of such discoveries, accidents, or combinations; biography is often so. Haud inexpertus loquor. Yet how often is it that some destroying agent, or rather barbarian, careless of the interest, or ignorant of the value of written memorials of the facts of life or history, have consigned them to destruction![5] And how many of those slighter details, occurrences, projects, or intrigues, that link small matters with great—how many points of manner, conduct, temper, or peculiarity that make up the sum of human character, are thus lost, of which we would gladly be informed! But, under every disadvantage, the hard student, like the daring soldier, must occasionally adventure upon a forlorn hope, and like him not unfrequently be rewarded by success.
Few difficulties were encountered by Malone in his new sphere of residence but what London connections readily overcame. He was proud to meet her celebrities—happy to receive their civilities—happier still in not being destined to mount to eminence through the rugged paths of penury, tracked as hunters do wounded animals by the pain and suffering commonly attendant upon friendless adventurers in letters.
In commencing the subject of study, he judiciously resolved to begin at the beginning; to trace out in the first instance the chronology of the poet’s plays. A temporary diffidence, however, overcame him. He imagined that something of ridicule or prejudice might attach to one whose recent profession had been so dissimilar. Happily it occurred to him to consult Lord Charlemont, whose taste in letters he found reason to respect; and his lordship’s approval was immediately given. It is the first letter which I have met with in their correspondence, and forms a fair example of what it continued for twenty years.
Marino, August 18th, 1777.
My dear Malone.—I cannot give you a stronger proof of my approbation of the subject which procured me the pleasure of your letter than by thus sitting down to answer it, though scarcely able to write from the effects of a disagreeable nervous complaint in my head and eyes. That some wise ones may smile at your lucubrations, I doubt not; but let them smile. There is nothing more despicable than their censure. For surely that wisdom may be accounted folly which would cut off one principal source of innocent amusement from a state which seems to stand in need of every such assistance to render it tolerable. One of the Roman emperors is said to have offered a reward to any one who should invent a new pleasure; and if to pleasure he had added the epithet innocent, I should highly approve of his design, certain as I am that such invention would do more real service and much less injury to mankind than all the wise speculations of philosophers from Epicurus to Voltaire.
For my own part, I will never be laughed out of my amusements till they shall have proved hurtful to society, but will boldly proceed in those pursuits which, though they cannot be deemed the fruits of literature, may at least be styled its flowers. Such is my opinion of the more trifling literary amusements. But your undertaking, my dear Ned, needs not any such apology. The history of man is on all hands allowed to be the most important study of the human mind; and what is your chronological account of the writings of Shakspeare other than the history of the progress of the greatest genius that ever honoured and delighted human nature?
And now to proceed in answer to your queries. Allured by the title-page, I long since read Green’s play,[6] with the view you mention, but could not find in it the most distant resemblance to the fairy part of the Midsummer Night’s Dream. The plan of it, in brief, is this: Bohan, a Scot, disgusted with the world, has retired to a tomb where he has fixed his dwelling; and here he is met by Aster Oberon, king of the fairies who entertains him with an antick, or dance by his subjects. These two personages, after some moral conversation, determine to listen to a tragedy which is acted before them, and to which they make a kind of chorus by moralizing at the end of each act—a circumstance which so early in the English drama may perhaps be curious.
The edition which I possess of Sir David Lindsay’s works, though printed so early as 1581, is not the original, but is said in the title-page to be turned and made perfect English from Poems compiled in the Scottish tongue. In this collection there is but one poem with the title you mention, viz., The Tragedy of David Beton, late Cardinal and Archbishop of Santandrons, so written for St. Andrews.
I received by Dick Marlay[7] the King John in two parts, and return you many thanks for your goodness to me. In order to render my old edition of Spenser complete, I wish you could procure the first quartos of the following pieces:—Two Cantos of Mutability; Amoretti, or Sonnets; Prothalamion and Epithalamion; Four Hymns; Daphnaida, an Elegy on Douglas Howard; Britain’s Ida (this not by Spenser, yet bound with his works); A View of the State of Ireland; Some Letters between the Author and Mr. Harvey.
Did Upton ever publish his third volume of Spenser’s works in quarto? I wish also that you could procure for me the collection of Lord Essex’s letters.
You see what it is to encourage a troublesome correspondent. But relying on your goodness, and on the resemblance of our pursuits, I doubt not but that you will pardon
Your very affectionate and obedient humble servant,
Charlemont.
Don’t forget to send me a copy of your “Shakspeare” (for such I love to call it) as soon as it shall be published. Remember me to all friends; and if your friend Mr. Steevens should recollect a person who had once the pleasure of dining in his company at poor Goldsmith’s entertainment,[8] please to present my compliments to him. Has Percy published his new edition of Surrey’s poems? Don’t let Sunning Hill seclude you too much from the world. Retirement is a good thing, but certainly too large a dose of it is not suited to your constitution. It is very possible that I may be able to see you in spring. I should like it much, but it depends on many circumstances. Adieu.
The allusion of his lordship to Steevens arose from the intimacy now prevailing between that gentleman and his correspondent. Between the critics existed also a free interchange of letters. Not less than twenty with dates, and nearly as many without, passed from the senior to the junior within a short time, which became scattered at the younger Boswell’s sale,—their subjects, as may be supposed, Shakspeare and Shakspearemen from Capell to Warton, criticism, notes to plays, and passing circumstances bearing on such themes.
Steevens likewise adverts at this time (1778) to an intended trip of Malone to Dublin. In jest, as was often his habit, or with marvellous good-nature, he requests in such case, that “his notes may remain behind—ne quid detrimenti capiat respublica. St. George’s Channel has had its share of literary spoil.[9] Seal up your criticisms, however, for I shall not venture to examine them till your return.”
This journey, whether actual or only contemplated, arose from the persuasions of his family. A hard student in a strange land seems, and often must be, in a state of uncomfortable isolation; and so his sisters thought. Whether he felt so may be doubted. Men of resolution aiming at distinction in a specific pursuit, will seldom be turned from it by minor considerations; but sisterly affection sees such privations in a different light. They therefore pressed his return.
The following to the same effect from his brother,[10] evinces the truest regard. He sketches for him a scheme of life, which, as usual with kind relatives, had worldly, not literary, advancement in view.
Dublin, Nov. 10th, 1777.
I received your letter of the 24th October this day seven-night, a few hours after my arrival in town; and should have been sorry your expectations of seeing me suddenly in London, as indeed you had reason to do, should have prevented your writing. It is in vain I think to stop any more letters to me, for as surely as I do, some new matters occur to retard my journey. I had better therefore, I believe, say that it will be a long time before I shall see you, and then probably I shall appear at a moment when you least expect it.
But jest apart, I now really hope to embark in a few days, not that I can yet name the particular time. A Mr. Cahill, whom you remember we went with one day last spring, to Mr. Wolfe’s, is preparing to file a bill against me. Glasscock thinks, as indeed I do, that it will be best, if possible, to prevent the addition of another law-suit, and is now reading the case, which has been laid before him. When I find in what manner it is proper for me to proceed with regard to that affair, I shall quit this; and at all events shall not suffer that business to detain me here for any considerable time. I have attended the courts pretty constantly since I have been in town, but though I despair to get rid of, I hope at least to get out of them.
Some of your friends, whom I have seen there, and indeed at other places, lament your having quitted the kingdom at this time, as they think, and I believe with reason, there never was so favourable an opportunity for a young man of any abilities rising at the bar, as at present. The defalcation of the great lawyers that has happened here of late, is indeed astonishing. Tisdall’s death has in its consequences occasioned the retirement of two men of the most eminent that remained, Hutcheson and Radcliffe. The former, become Secretary of State, has bid adieu to the bar, and the latter, just appointed Judge of the Prerogative Court, has also (by agreement) quitted the practice of the Hall; so that in the space of less than three months, all the capital lawyers almost to a man are gone off. Tisdall, Dennis, Hutcheson, and Radcliffe, not to say a word of my uncle, who led the way so recently before. I am convinced that were you to return here you could not fail of the most rapid success in the profession; and really wish—could you in any sort reconcile it with your other schemes of happiness—that you would once more adventure in a pursuit, which there is no doubt would now be attended with the greatest advantages to your fortune, if that is a matter you consider as any object.
The only thing I can see wanting absolutely to insure success, would be a seat in Parliament, which might easily be obtained, and should be immediately done by me, if you choose it, with the greatest pleasure. One obstacle, I know, would occur to you in such a proposal, which is the difficulties you might imagine it would lay me under; but to entirely remove any objections or scruples you might have on that head, you shall hereafter, if you please, repay me the expenses attending it if you meet with the success that I hope. If not, whatever the disappointment may be (of which I think there is little probability), the loss I am sure will be to me temporary and inconsiderable; but the reflection of having endeavoured to contribute my mite to a scheme that bids fair for promoting your prosperity, will certainly afford me a pleasure that I well know will always continue.
Perhaps, among other objections you might have, would be the awkwardness in returning to a place, which you seemingly had relinquished—that, I think, is no obstacle, if there were no other in the way. Upon a little reflection I think it would appear to you as undeserving of attention, because your coming into Parliament of itself would be considered by every one a sufficient motive for the change of your intentions, if indeed in their eyes there wanted any; for you are too well acquainted with the people of this country, not to know that your returning to a place which they consider as containing everything desirable, would not be to them a matter of the smallest surprise. Upon the whole, I most ardently wish that yon would have it in your contemplation, and for my own part think you might adopt this scheme, without by any means bidding adieu to the other kingdom, or sacrificing your happiness to your interests, which I should be one of the last persons to recommend.
You do not seem very fond of the pleasures of London, and probably will not hereafter pass much of your time there. Why should you not then keep the place in the country you now have, and spend the principal part of the summer vacations there; besides occasionally visiting it, as well as London at such other times as may be agreeable. At all events you would have it as a place ultimately to retire to, should you find a return to this kingdom either not answer, or any residence here so irksome upon trial, that you should think the sacrifices made by the exchange more than a balance for the greatest advantages that might arise from it. But I hope very soon to see you, when we can talk more at large upon the subject. I only wish now to recommend it to your consideration: for, notwithstanding what I have said, you will believe, whatever may be my own sentiments, I only wish you to pursue that path of life which, upon due deliberation, you may think most likely to lead to your happiness.
I have so little time to go to the House of Commons, that I can give you no account of what is going forward there; and if I could, you probably receive intelligence of it through other channels, from those who know more of the matter than I do. Everything is certainly going on very quiet there, and I believe likely to continue so.
Since I wrote the above, Glasscock has been with me. He would fain keep me till McEvoy’s affair comes on, which he is in hopes will be in a few days. He seems to have fears that we shall want sufficient proofs to disclose the iniquity of this transaction, and wishes me if possible to be present; yet I think if it does not come on by the middle of next week, nothing shall induce me to stay here a moment longer: but I have expressed the same so often before, that you may truly say, “I hear, but can believe no more.”
- ↑ The title is, A Table of the several Statutes in Ireland respecting Treasons, Felonies, and the power of Grand Juries since Poyning’s Law. At the end of the alphabet are added abstracts from the State Tryals concerning the Criminal Law.—Edmond Malone.
- ↑ Meaning, no doubt, Henry Flood, of whom some notice will hereafter appear. He had warred much against Lord Townshend’s government, joined by many witty or popular men, whose ephemeral sallies were collected in the volume already mentioned. Malone, by this confession, appears to have been one of the number.
- ↑ Life of Goldsmith, vol. i. p. 63. Murray, 1837.
- ↑ The will of Anthony Malone, made in July, 1774, gave all his estates in the counties of Westmeath, Roscommon, Longford, Cavan, and Dublin, to his nephew, Richard Malone, eldest son and heir of his late brother Edmond, in the utmost confidence that they will be settled and continue in the male line of the family and branches of it,” according to priority of birth and seniority of age.” These estates, all acquired by the practice of law, have become largely the prey of law. Richard (Lord Sunderlin afterward) did not strictly fulfil his uncle’s injunction. Upon his death in 1816, his sisters claimed the estates. Their right became contested; and when 10,000l. had been spent in legal proceedings, a compromise gave them 3,000l. a year for life, upon surrendering the estates. Further litigation ensued, as successive deaths occurred, between claimants legitimate and illegitimate; and the estates have been at intervals, and are still (1859), before Parliament and the courts of law.
- ↑ Almost at the moment of penning this, I had heard from my late friend, Commissioner Charles Phillips, that the whole, or nearly the whole, of the papers of an eminent Irish peer, statesman, and lawyer, had heen committed to the flames soon after his death. Many names, in many ways, would, it seems, have heen compromised by their preservation. Surely, in this indiscriminate paper-massacre, the curious and unoffending could have been separated from the obnoxious? I had not long before heard of a similar immolation of a series of letters of a deceased literary man, descriptive of London life, letters, and society, because a few were objectionable in portions of the details!
- ↑ James the Fourth, a Scottish Story.
- ↑ Well known in literary circles in London and Dublin. Afterwards Bishop of Waterford.
- ↑ This dinner I have noticed in the Life of that poet early in 1774.
- ↑ In allusion probably to the loss of scarce works of Mr. Dennis Daly on the same voyage, collected by Malone.
- ↑ This gentleman was himself fond of the society of London, and paid it an annual visit. He became member of the Irish Parliament for Granard in 1768; for county of Westmeath in 1782; returned also for a borough in King’s County; in 1778, married Philippa, elder daughter of Godolphin Hooper, Esq., of Berkhampstead; in 1785, raised to the Irish Peerage as Lord Sunderlin. His seat, Baronston, Westmeath, is fortyseven miles from Dublin.