The British Press; or, Morning Literary Advertiser.
London, England, 1825-09-14 00:00:00

ANECDOTE OF MR. BROUGHAM.

During the summer of 1800, Mr. Brougham, accom-
panied by Campbell of Isla, and a fashionable patty,
visited the Western Isles of Scotland. Mr. Brougham
and his companions were all then in the flower of their
jocund youth; wild, reckless, and impetuonS, as youth is
wont to be. They sailed in a vessel, generally known in
the Highland harbours by the name of the Alai Brig. It
is a grave question whether the brig or the navigators de-
served this terrific epithet ; but true it is, that she was, at
the tune, a good deal under the influence of sport, fun, and
frolic, known to all the world as the near relatives to mad-
ness. These madcap agencies weighed her anchors, di-
rected her course, and moored her again in port. In one
of her excursions, say the chronicles of the time, this Alad
Brig touched at the port of Stornaway, dubbed, by way of
eminence, the capital of the Hebrides. Amusement was,
of course, rather flat in the " City of the Isles," though
the expedition took up their quarters at the best Inn which
the place afforded. We know not whether the Barrister
was at that time a phrenologist or not ' • certain it is that he
formed a pretty just estimate of the momentum of his
'landlord's brains. The sturdy Boniface seemed to supply
a glorious subject for diversion ; and our travellers resolved
to make an experiment on his powers fur comedy. Arming
himself one evening with a brace of enorineus pistols, at
the dead hour of night, Brougham stalked, like a grimly
ghost, into his host's bed-chamber. After awakening the
somnolent innkeeper, this horrid apparition secured the
door. The moon shone brightly through the window ;
and this spectre observed a flock of fowls, comfortably
reposing themselves. The petrified hotel keeper observed
him raising a lank, bony arm, garnished with a horse-
pistol—discharging which, a miserable duckling was sent,
with a piteous quack, to the shades below. In a hollow
tone, the spirit charged Boniface on his life to be silent. Ile
started from his bed in consternation. " Utter one syalla-
ble," said the infernal visitant, in a voice like the roar of a
volcano, " and 1 shall lay your ungodly carcass as flat as
yonder fowl !" The poor host found that quietness was
the best policy ; reasonably judging, from the portentous
decision of his tormentor's manner, that his luckless life
was in imminent peril, and that a refusal would most
likely occasion the threatener to suit the action to the
word. Poor Boniface, therefore, continued still as a
mouse. Brougham then, addressing him, charged him
with treason to his delectable spouse—the poisoning of
whisky—with a long catalogue of enormities; and or-
dered him immediately to fall upon his knees, make con-
fession of his sins, and prepare for his final exit. Believ-
ing, and trembling, the terrified innkeeper dropped upon
his knees, protested his innocence, and craved his life with'
all the eloquence which terror could inspire. He pleaded,
preached, and prayed, while the apparition held the
loaded pistol to his breast, inculcating the necessity of a
full confession, ever and anon insisting that the culprit
had perpetrated crimes yet undivulged. The culprit
answered with pious remorse all the interrogatories which
his inquisitor was pleased to propose, and afterwards
prayed with greater fervency than he had ever done before.
This finished, the ghostly Brougham warned and solemnly
exhorted him to forsake the paths of iniquity, assuring hini
that his contrition was the sole cause of the forbearance of
heaven. Thus saying, as poor Boniface believed, he va-
nished in a blaze of sulphur. This adventure, we may
suppose, furnished no small amusement to the party. At
this day, when our host hears the name of Brougham, lic '
never fails to couple it with some pertinent epithet. 1 re-
member when the late Queen's affair brought her great
orator so much before the public, our host, on hearing
some person read a portion of the trial, cried out,
" Brougham her advicat ! no wonder if she should lose the
cause! That's the scamp fallow that gart my teeth clatter.
He is just a thong u' the Devils hide.—Ediutu,-gh OL-
se-err.