The reminiscences of the Right Hon. Lord O'Brien (of Kilfenora) : Lord chief justice of Ireland

Introduction

It is a matter of sincere regret to me that an apologia for inadequacy should preface this volume, which, as an autobiographical work, is incomplete and fragmentary. I acted as my father's amanuensis, and each evening used to bring him the manuscript, saying, " Shall we work a little to-night ?" To which request, when we first undertook the book, he would assent. Alas ! as the days passed by, the answer, " Not to-night, I am too tired," became more and more frequent, until at last there came an evening when he said: " You will have to complete the book alone, unaided by me; I can work no more. I have every confidence in you."

I had hoped that the writing of his reminiscences would provide him with an interesting pastime, instead of which it soon became evident that speaking of his early days saddened him. For one who had been so full of life and buoyancy, so vigorously alive, it was a sore trial to spend the days in an arm-chair, enfeebled by age and ill-health, conscious that the tide of life was slowly ebbing. Truly has Dante

said :

vi INTRODUCTION

Very reluctantly, and with many misgivings as to my qualifications for the work, I took up my pen to finish what was to me a sorrowful task.

Many years before this book was begun I suggested to my father that he should begin an autobiography, but without success. He was indolent about writing, and invariably wrote the shortest of letters. I have heard it said that on the Bench he rarely made notes; he was able to pigeon-hole, as it were, the facts of a case in his brain, and I have been told that he never forgot any point whatsoever that had any bearing on it. Absolutely devoid of intellectual arrogance, he was ever willing to listen to the opinions of others, provided they were clearly and intelligently stated. Sometimes he would read the evidence in a case to a member of his family, and then ask an opinion on it, in order to ascertain the view which a non-legal mind would take of the evidence, so that he might fully understand the difficulties which would present themselves to a jury. One day he called me into his study and gave me a brief to read. When I had done so he asked : " Now, what is your view of the case ?"

I gave him my view, which he seemed rather to deride, and asked me on what grounds I based my opinion. Feeling very small, I stated my reasons as best I could. He took a totally different view of the case.

" Now, might not the evidence be rea d in such a way ?" he said, representing other views of the case.

INTRODUCTION vii

" I have given you my opinion, such as it is," I replied.

He smiled, as he said: " Well, I have been endeavouring to urge my views on you to make you see things in the same light as I do, but it is only fair to say that there is a great deal to be said in

favour of your opinion. Judge takes exactly

the same view as you do. I fear there'll be a disagreement."

A distinguished Judge thus wrote of him: " He and I were thrown much together all through our professional careers, and nothing ever interrupted our mutual regard and attachment. It was a joy to be with him in a case, he was so undaunted, and so thoroughly master of all the resources of advocacy. As an antagonist there was no one whom I feared more. With unerring instinct, he always directed his powers against one's most vulnerable point of defence. As a Judge, he displayed those great qualities which won for him his great position. Fearless, wise, strenuous to make justice and right prevail, and with extraordinary power of getting at the honesty of a case and penetrating false evidence, it is a comfort and satisfaction to have been comrade at the Bar with such a loyal friend, dauntless advocate, and admirable Judge."

G. O'B.

London,

October, 1916.

THE REMINISCENCES OF THE RIGHT HON. LORD O'BRIEN

Chapter I

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS — MY FATHER — THE FAMINE — RICHARD LALOR SHEIL — EDUCATION — SCHOOLDAYS

I think it is Smollett who says something to the effect that every person who has anything to say ought to write his own memoirs, provided he has honesty enough to tell the truth. Inasmuch as the truth is often extremely dull, I take up my pen, with many misgivings, to write my reminiscences.

I was born in the year 1842, on the 29th of June, at Camelry House, in the county of Clare, where my family was then domiciled. My father, John O'Brien of Ballynalacken, County Clare, was a Whig and Member of Parliament for Limerick. He had, as we say in Ireland, a " long family." I was his fifth son.

He was a man of undoubted abilities and singularly broadminded, but cold and reserved in manner, and though he kept us, children, at a distance, we never doubted the affection he bore us. He might have left a mark on contemporary history had he not been of an extremely sensitive nature — shy and diffident.

He was a warm supporter of Catholic Emancipation and an intimate friend of the great O'Connell, to whom he bore a very remarkable likeness, and for whom he was frequently mistaken, a fact which sometimes gave rise to curious incidents. It is to my father's eternal credit that he was among the first Catholics of the educated classes to come forward in support of Catholic Emancipation, a right which, strange to say, the Catholic gentry of Ireland were very slow to claim.

I have now in my possession the (London) Morning Chronicle of the 15th of December in the year 1836 (price 5d.), giving an account of a meeting held in the Court House, Clare ; my father was in the chair. At this meeting, held two years before the passing of the great Poor Law Act, resolutions in favour of Poor Laws for Ireland were unanimously adopted. At that time poverty and illness were rife in Ireland, and a great portion of the land was in the hands of absentee landlords. My father, speaking at this meeting, pointed out that " a well-regulated poor-rate would, in a degree, have the effect of an absentee tax, from which the resident landed proprietors would derive important advantages and be relieved from the painful sense of living in the midst of a famishing population. The physical and moral condition of the country would progressively improve, and the higher and more affluent ranks, whether resident or absentee, would be compelled, by the urgent sense of self interest, to superintend the wants and ameliorate the

THE FAMINE 3

condition of the humbler classes. It is apprehended," he said, "that a poor-rate may encroach upon rental, but whatever part is so applied will produce an abundant equivalent, and I know no more appropriate application of national rental than in protecting the great body of the people from periodical starvation." It would seem that my father foresaw the evils which were to accrue from absenteesim.

My first recollection, a melancholy one, impressed itself indelibly upon my mind, and comes before me as distinctly as if the incident took place only yesterday, and yet how many years have elapsed since then ! It must have been about the year 1847 or 1848, the years of the failure of the potato crop and the great famine known in Ireland as " The Great Hunger." The very atmosphere of the day comes before me — a dull grey day, with a low-hanging, leaden sky. I (a very small boy) was standing in a field with my father, who held me by the hand, and near by was a labourer digging potatoes. Each time he dug up a spade full of potatoes he scraped them free of clay, and, in silence, submitted them to my father's inspection. Consternation and despair were depicted on the man's countenance. Each potato was blaqk and rotten at the core. I remember walking home with my father and thinking the while how grave he looked. The years 1847 and 1848 were, perhaps, the saddest years in the all-sad history of Ireland. People, especially in the west, died in hundreds from dysentery, the effects of starvation. Clare was devastated by disease, misery, and desolation. The workhouses were overcrowded; it was impossible to provide accommodation for the starving, and on the road skeletons were to be seen. A child of my tender years was not permitted to see these harrowing sights ; still, I perfectly recollect hearing them described.

My early recollections come back to me in a fragmentary manner. Some mere incidents stand out vividly in my memory, while events of importance or personages of distinction are totally forgotten, or but indistinctly remembered. As a small child, I sometimes met Richard Lalor Sheil, who was a connection of our family. I can just recall the vision of a man of dwarfish appearance, with very intelligent eyes which made his face attractive.

Sheil was a most agreeable companion. His oratorical powers were so great that they rivalled those of O'Connell, and were supposed to excel even those of Macaulay. My father attached much importance to oratory, and was no mean orator himself; indeed, Macaulay congratulated him in the House " on the force and eloquence " he displayed " when pleading the cause of his country." This occurred in 1844. Lord John Russell had moved for a committee of the whole House to take into consideration the state of Ireland. I think in those days more importance was attached to oratory in politics than at the present time. Nowadays one hears of good speakers or clever debaters, but rarely of great orators. I sometimes wonder if oratory is becoming a lost art, and fear that Mr. Gladstone and John Bright were the

RICHARD LALOR SHEIL 5

last of the orators. How well I remember the well-known Serjeant Frank Murphy !* — a brilliant and amusing conversationalist, the best of good company, a most entertaining raconteur, and much sought after in London on account of his many social gifts. We, children, delighted in his society, and would ask him about London and the notable people he had met there. He used to speak to us of " Old Thack," as he called Thackeray, who was a friend of his, although he never quite forgave him for his unflattering portrait of the Irish in the Irish Sketch Book. The Serjeant was a confirmed gourmet, and I recollect his telling us that he dined with Lord Byron, who, though priding himself on his cook, gave a very indifferent dinner. On Lord Byron asking him what he thought of the cook, he answered, with more frankness than politeness: " Dam bad."

My father was deeply interested in the education of his children, and was, as I have already said, rather severe. My three elder brothers were at school at Oscott, and, when he was not detained in London by Parliamentary duties, he used to superintend my studies. I had to present myself in the library each morning. It was with awe that I came into his presence. I was placed in the far corner of the room and made to read aloud from one of the Latin classics, generally Virgil, and woe to me when I stumbled

* Serjeant-at-Law; a member of the English Bar; a writer of magazine articles ; contributed to Fraser's Magazine, which was established by Maginn, and was under the auspices of Thackeray; M.P. for County Cork, 1837-1853.— Editor.

over or mispronounced a word ! I still hear his voice ringing in my ears, as he called out " Sir," or " Sirrah, what was that ?" Sometimes when the lessons were over, and I had acquitted myself well, he would converse with me, and tell me some story or incident by way of reward. I remember his telling me of an occurrence which made an impression on my mind. One dark, wild night when returning from the Clare Assizes (he was High Sheriff at the time), his carriage was suddenly stopped on a lonely road, and an individual thrust his head into the window saying that he desired to give himself up to justice, " for," he said, " I was among the six men who murdered Mr. So-and-so." He alluded to the murder of a gentleman, which had taken place many years before, and for which five men had been executed. The man then proceeded to say that he was present at the death scene of his companions, and the horror of that scene still haunted him. At his own most earnest wish he surrendered to justice, and, I believe, paid the extreme penalty of his crime. This is interesting only inasmuch as it shows that great criminals, haunted by the sense of their guilt, will, years after a crime has been committed, surrender to justice rather than bear the reproaches of conscience.

As a boy, I was very happy, and full of vitality. Most of my time was spent out of doors hunting hares or coursing. I was often in mischief, and numerous were the scrapes in which I was involved, from many of which my old nurse, Kelly, extracted me. She was a typical old-fashioned Irish servant, very faith-

EDUCATION 7

ful and devoted to us. She was with us until she died, and was always seventy-four when the census came round, though she was much nearer ninetyfour ! When I wished to tease her, I used to say: "Come now, Nurse Kelly; what is your age?" at which question she immediately flew into a passion. Though she was devoted to us all, I think I was her favourite — perhaps because I gave her the most trouble. I have a vivid recollection of being confined to the lumber-room for some childish escapade, while the kind old woman sat outside the door with an enormous brown nursery teapot, trying to console me with saueters of tea, floating with cream, which she passed through the door.

One trait I share in common with the great Dr. Johnson, and that is my love of tea. As a child, it was a panacea for all my woes. When I was nine years of age my father talked of sending me to school, to join my brothers at Oscott. My father was something of a philanthropist, which often means spending more money than one can afford. He had built a schoolhouse, and had several roads made throughout Clare to give employment after the famine — an expensive form of philanthropy. In those days elections were a great expense, so that when I was of age to go to school the family exchequer had run rather low. It was decided at last that my brother William and I should go to Clongowes Wood College. I remember feeling very sad and desolate standing aloof in the playground, watching boys of my own age flying kites, which seemed to me an inane pastime. At home we, children, were expected to take an intelligent interest in all that was going on, and were permitted to join in the conversation of our elders. The Jesuit Fathers, od perceiving my mental isolation, moved me into a class with boys older than myself. I soon overcame any feelings of home-sickness. Many pleasant memories flash back upon me when I think of those distant schooldays, my teachers, and my school companions. Father Lentaigne was Rector of Clongowes then, and among my class-fellows were several boys who afterwards rose to eminence. John Naish, one of my dearest friends throughout his life, was amongst them. He became Lord Chancellor of Ireland when little over forty years of age. Even as a small boy he was remarkable for exceptional ability; indeed, his intellect was towering, and his memory encyclopaedic. His early death, in the full vigour of his glorious intellectual powers, was a great shock to his friends. Sir Nicholas O'Connor, afterwards Ambassador at St. Petersburg, and the distinguished scholar, Richard O'Shaughnessy, were class-fellows of mine, also Father Donovan, now a Jesuit. I worked very hard at school, and always held a good position in my class, being generally top of it. In those pre-Intermediate days our studies were almost exclusively classical. Richard O'Shaughnessy and I were the leaders of the Rhetoric class. The rivalry between us became so intense that in the summer mornings, though still in bed, we would lie waiting with open shutters for the first streak of dawn, so that we might prepare our work for the

SCHOOLDAYS 9

examinations. After a close struggle, I carried off the examination prize. My conduct on the whole was good, although I was once the ringleader in a " barring out." One morning my class, headed by me, decided to have a " barring out." Properly speaking, it was the locking in of ourselves, and a " barring out " of the " prefects " and other undesirables. The great pleasure lay in kicking up a row, and in giving a display of pluck before the house. The time selected was the hour for the mathematical class.* Mathematics had no charm for me, nor, indeed, for the majority of the class. A general strike was proclaimed, and there was a cry of " Down with mathematics ! " and much cheering and uproarious defiance of law and order. The master invoked the aid of the " Higher Line Prefect," who summoned the rioters to open the door. Dead silence reigned among the boys, inasmuch as they were afraid lest their voices might be recognized, and we were in dire fear of the prefect. Once more

* That distinguished Jesuit, Father Delany, when speaking of my father, told me the following little anecdote: " It became my duty," said Father Delany, " in July, 1858, to examine the second Mathematical Class of some fourteen students. The papers I had set were easy ; but of the fourteen not more than three attempted to do the simplest proposition. The others handed in blank papers, except O'Brien. He, too, did not attempt any of the propositions, but wrote a really clever essay on the educational value of the study of mathematics if only one had a taste for them. This was characteristic of the boy. Mature beyond his years, he was very self-possessed, with the bump of reverence only moderately developed; but genial and pleasant, and ready of repartee." — Editor.

lie summoned us to surrender. There was no response, whereupon he sent for the house carpenter, who knocked in the panel of the door with two or three sturdy blows. We had to capitulate, and had to walk out in single file, blessing our luck that nothing worse lay in store for us.

In my schooldays a favourite amusement of mine was known as " bringing out the hounds." This pastime usually took place in the General Study Room, when the boys were preparing their work for next day, and when silence was imperative. The Prefect of Discipline was near-sighted. One of my class-fellows used to start giving tongue like a fox-hound from one end of the study. I also gave tongue, and in a few minutes there was a capital reproduction of hounds in full cry. As no boy stirred from his seat, it was impossible for the Prefect of Discipline to distinguish those who gave tongue and those who did not.

I was the recipient of many prizes when at school, and in 1858 received the Clongowes Medal. I had a love for the Latin classics, and construed Latin and Greek verse very fairly. Though never a great reader, I delighted in Shakespeare's plays, and had a liking for poetry, especially for that of Byron. Sir Walter Scott was my favourite author, and is to this day. I shall never forget the pleasure with which I read " Ivanhoe." I know it is the fashion nowadays to decry the Waverley Novels as too romantic and demode, but, surely, no other historical novel gives such a vivid and incomparable picture of the feudal

SCHOOLDAYS 11

times. Though fully aware of my literary shortcomings, which I confessed to Mr. Arnold before commencing my autobiography, I maintain that there never was, and never will be, a novel to equal " Ivanhoe." I liked books which deal with adventures, and works that appeal to the imagination. I thoroughly enjoyed the writings of Dumas Pere, and still remember being thrilled by Mrs. RadclinVs " Mysteries of Udolpho," which I read as a schoolboy during my vacation. I sat up at night for hours reading it in solitude by the light of a solitary candle. Profound silence reigned around me — the silence of night — when, all of a sudden, I distinctly heard a noise in my room. There could be no mistake. Up to that moment I had never believed in ghosts, but then felt firmly convinced that I was about to see one. The noise came again, loud, and more insistent. I hardly dared look round, fearing some ghostly manifestation. The candle was guttering and nickering before I summoned courage to turn my head. I glanced around the room, but there was nothing unusual to be seen; still the sound came apparently from the direction of the mantelpiece. It was so loud that I seized the candle, and, going to the place whence it proceeded, heard a croak. In another moment a huge jackdaw flopped down the chimney from its nest at the top. It was much bewildered and surprised by its strange surroundings, and was, apparently, as frightened as I had been before its advent. I suppose it would be an Irish bull to say that this was my one encounter with a ghost.

Chapter II

TRINITY COLLEGE — CALLED TO THE BAR — HARRIERS — MY FIRST PUNCHESTOWN — MY FIRST CASE

In 1855 I was shocked by the sudden news of my father's death. The day before, in his usual health and good spirits, he had started for London on Parliamentary duty. When he reached Dublin he had some sort of seizure from which he never rallied. He died at the Shelbourne Hotel.

After his death my mother moved to Dublin with us. My two eldest brothers were grown up at the time. I entered Trinity College with the view of being called to the Bar. My career at College was not, I regret to say, a very distinguished one, nor was I conspicuous as a strenuous worker. I had rooms in that section of the College known as Botany Bay, where, I believe, I gave very pleasant parties. I remember one especially, a musical party. My dear friend M— — (now a saint, and one of London's most distinguished preachers, then a gay young man about town), having dined not wisely but too well, took possession of the piano and strummed upon it until we could stand it no longer. He fancied himself as

TRINITY COLLEGE 13

a musician in those days, and I believe he is still musical. When we asked him to abstain from playing, he determinedly sat upon the instrument, and it was with great difficulty that we were at last able to evict him.

When I was at Trinity, Dr. Salmon was Lecturer in Mathematics. Years afterwards he was Provost. He was most gifted, but his abnormal absent-mindedness gave rise to many good stories at his expense. I remember being told that on one occasion when he was out walking, he knocked against a cow on its way to the butcher. Deeply absorbed in some intellectual problem, he took the cow to be a passer-by, and, taking off his hat, apologized to it most elaborately, and then walked on.

On another occasion, when the Provost had gone to a dinner-party, his faithful servant was horrified to find his master's trousers on the bed. " Gracious goodness !" thought he ; " my master has gone to a party without his trousers." The man seized the garment, and rushed into the street, where he overtook the Provost, looking quite spick-andspan and almost fashionable in a new pair of trousers !

At Trinity Canon Teignmouth Shore was one of my grinders. Only a few years ago I chanced to meet him again, and spent a pleasant day with him at Worcester, where he showed me over his beloved Cathedral. When I left Trinity College I had had an auction of all my things, and went to London to

" eat my dinners." In London I spent money nobly — in fact, so munificently that I was soon penniless, and probably would have been there to this day had I not possessed a valuable edition of Johnson's dictionary, which I sold. The money it realized helped to pay my return fare to Ireland.

Dublin was very gay in those days. My sisters and I went to balls, dances, and parties at the Castle, but I was obliged to retire from Court life owing to the loss of my Court suit. It had belonged to my eldest brother, then to my second and third, and eventually was handed down to me rather the worse for wear. It disappeared, having been stolen by a servant. Its loss necessitated my withdrawal from Viceregal circles for a time. Some years after its disappearance, as I was walking down Dame Street, when a levee was being held at the Castle, a rickety cab collapsed just in front of me, and a gentleman in a full Court suit was deposited on the pavement bruised and looking very doleful. I condoled with him on his accident, and, as I did so, was surprised to perceive that he was wearing my ci-devant Court suit. In the course of conversation I asked him what tailor had been responsible for his suit. He told me that he had bought it from a servant-man, who said that it was given to him by his former master, who had no further use for it. There could be no mistake about the suit, as I recognized certain well-known patches.

I was called to the Bar in 1865. 1 read with that

CALLED TO THE BAR 15

great Judge and lawyer, Chief Baron Palles,* to whom I always say I am indebted for any knowledge of law I possess. For six months after I was called to the Bar I gave no attention to work; not that I was lazy or an idler, but I was fond of pleasure and energetic in its pursuit. In those days I had a passion for hunting which much interfered with my work. It was far pleasanter to be at my brother's place in Clare, enjoying the fresh breezes from the Atlantic, than to be in a stuffy court-house, hanging about on the look-out for chance clients, or listening to other people's cases. I had a scratch pack of harriers, the keep of which cost me nothing — they were boarded out amongst the tenantry; and I possessed a horse called Chance, the most trusty of hunters. The whole country-side was wont to come out hunting with me, even the schoolmaster left books and pupils to join the chase. He was an excellent sportsman; I only hope he was an equally good educationist. Perhaps in those days school inspectors were less scrupulous, or less keen, than now; anyhow, we were never troubled by informal visits from them. We were a

* The Lord Chief Baron always regarded my father as a youth, and never forgot that he had been his mentor, when, as a young barrister, he had read law with him.

One day they sat together during the hearing of an important case. A controversy on some point of law arose, on which the opinion of the Lord Chief Justice, who was presiding, differed from that of the Lord Chief Baron, and the latter was heard to exclaim, as though he were speaking to a recalcitrant schoolboy: " Oh, Peter, Peter, you never learned that from me." — Editor.

merry party, and the hillside rang with the sound of my hunting-horn. I used to impress upon the keeper, Tom Gardiner, then some years older than myself, the necessity of preserving hares, now I threaten to put him in jail should the hares fail. I am happy to say Tom is still alive, and only the other day he sent me a message to say that he had " plenty of hares for me; would I come and hunt them V Alas ! my hunting days are over, and for me " there has faded a glory from the earth." Tom Gardiner is endowed with all the vivid imagination of the Celt, and is the most entertaining of story-tellers. With what delight Lady Gregory and Mr. Yeats would have listened to him ! Tom was intimately acquainted with the fairies, and had seen mermaids with emeraldcoloured eyes and long hair, for " all the world like say-weed," who had endeavoured to put a " spell on " him and draw him under the waves in spite of himself; but Tom was obdurate to all blandishments, and was not to be cajoled even by " the Queen of the Mermaids herself," who, he gave me to understand, had endeavoured to fascinate him. He took no little pride in having resisted her baneful influence. We all delighted in his stories, and this the rogue knew. As I write, I seem to see his shrewd Irish eyes fixed on my face, observing me closely, as he related some of his thrilling experiences most dramatically, wondering, I suppose, how far I was gullible. So vivid were his descriptions of " witch hares " and strange foxes, that, when I was listening to him, I am not