“From the period in which Curran emerged from the first struggles of an unfriended man, labouring up a jealous profession, his history makes a part of the annals of his country: once upon the surface, his light was always before the eye, it never sank and was never outshone. With great powers to lift himself beyond the reach of that tumultuous and stormy agitation that must involve the movers of the public mind in a country such as Ireland then was, he loved to cling to the heavings of the wave; he, at least, never rose to that tranquil elevation to which his early contemporaries had one by one climbed; and never left the struggle till the storm had gone down, it is to be hoped for ever. This was his destiny, but it might have been his choice, and he was not without the reward, which, to an ambitious mind conscious of its eminent powers, might be more than equivalent to the reluctant patronage of the throne. To his habits legal distinction would have been only a bounty upon his silence; his limbs would have been fettered by the ermine; but he had the compensation of boundless popular honour, much respect from the higher ranks of party, much admiration and much fear from the lower partizans. In Parliament he was the assailant most dreaded; in the law-courts he was the advocate deemed the most essential; in both he was an object of all the more powerful passions of man but rivalry,— ‘He stood alone and shone alone.’” During Curran’s residence in Amelia Place he suffered two slight apoplectic attacks; but he, nevertheless, “occasionally indulged in society, and was to his last sparkle the most interesting, singular, and delightful of all table companions.” The forenoon he generally passed in a solitary ramble through the neighbouring fields and gardens (which have now disappeared), and in the evening he enjoyed the conversation of a few friends; but, though the brilliancy of his wit shone to the last, he seemed like one who had outlived everything in life that was worth enjoying. This is exemplified in Curran’s melancholy repartee to his medical attendant a few days before his decease. The doctor remarked that his patient’s cough was not improved. “That is odd,” remarked Curran, “for I have been practising all night!”