Chapter V: Part 5

Curran had been in hopes that when Diver had satisfied his _curiosity_ he would retire; and with this impression, spoke kindly to him, but was answered only by a growl. If Curran repeated his blandishments, Diver showed his long white tusks;—if he moved his foot, the dog’s hind legs were in motion. Once or twice Curran raised his hand: but Diver, considering that as a sort of challenge, rose instantly, and with a low growl looked significantly at Curran’s windpipe. Curran, therefore, stood like a _model_, if not much like a marble divinity. In truth, though somewhat less comely, his features were more expressive than those of the Apollo Belvidere. Had the circumstance occurred at Athens to Demosthenes, or in the days of Phidias, it is probable my friend Curran, and Diver, would have been at this moment exhibited in virgin marble at Florence or at the Vatican;—and I am quite sure the _subject_ would have been better and more amusing than that of “the dying gladiator.”

GEORGE ROBERT FITZGERALD.

George Robert Fitzgerald and Mr. Richard Martin, M. P. for Galway—The
“Prime Sergeant,” Lord Altamont’s wolf-dog—Shot by Fitzgerald—The
circumstance resented by Mr. Martin—The latter insulted by his
antagonist in the Dublin Theatre—Mission of Mr. Lyster to George
Robert, and its disastrous consequences—A legal inquiry and strange
decision—Meeting between the principals—Fitzgerald receives two shots
without injury—Explanation of that enigma.

A very illustrative anecdote of the habits of former times is afforded by the celebrated rencontre between George Robert Fitzgerald of Turlow, member for Mayo, and Mr. Richard Martin of Connemara, member for Galway county, which occurred nearly half a century ago. Both were gentlemen of great public notoriety: both men of family and of fortune. But of all the _contrasts_ that ever existed in human nature, theirs was in the superlative degree; for modern biography does not present a character more eminently vindictive and sanguinary than the one, or an individual more signalised by active humanity and benevolence than the other.

With the chief of Connemara I have now been nearly forty years in a state of uninterrupted friendship:—failings he has—“let him who is faultless throw the first stone!” The character I should give of him may be summed up in a single sentence. “Urbanity toward women; benevolence toward men; and humanity toward the brute creation.” I must observe, however, that he is one of those good fellows who would rather do any body’s business than his own; and durst look any thing in the face rather than his own situation. As to his _charity_, I cannot say too much; as to his _politics_, I cannot say too little.

His unfortunate antagonist, Mr. Fitzgerald, has long since met his miserable fate. Mr. Martin still lives; and seems to defy, from the strength of his constitution, both time and the destroyer. If _ever_ he should become defunct, there is not a bullock, calf, goose, or hack, but ought to _go into deep mourning_ for him.

The virulent animosity and unfinished conflicts between these celebrated personages once formed a subject of very general conversation. When the bullets of holster pistols flatten against the ribs of a gentleman, there can be no great use in fighting any more with _him_: it is better to break fresh ground with some more vulnerable amateur; and as “fire eating” was at the period I allude to in full taste and fashion, no person who felt a _penchant_ for chivalry need wait a single hour for a thrust. Every gentleman then wore his sword or _couteau de chasse_, which there could be no trouble in drawing.

I was quite unacquainted with the true state of the quarrel between these parties, or the facts of their rencontres; and have begged my friend Martin to give me a circumstantial detail, lest I might mistake and be called a “bouncer:” he was so obliging as to comply; and I conceive that his Ms. statement is so perspicuous and fair, almost amounting to perfect impartiality—in that conversational style, too, best calculated for narrative,—that I determine to give it in nearly the same words; and when it is combined with a few facts which I learned from another friend, I venture to think that a better outline of Mayo and Galway lords, commoners, judges, country gentlemen, and _fire eaters_, cannot be found. As, however, there is nothing in it chivalrous in the _ladies’_ way—the whole being about _hate_ with not one particle respecting _love_, I fear it will not be a favourite sketch with the gentler part of the creation. To make them amends, I’ll search my old trunks, and find if possible some pretty sketch that has _nothing but love_ or _marriage_ in it, which they shall have as well dressed and garnished as they can reasonably expect from so old a _cuisinier_; and now, with their kind permission, we will proceed to County Mayo.

“George Robert Fitzgerald, having a deadly hate to all the Brown family, but hating most Lord Altamont, rode up one morning from Turlow to Westport House, and asked to see the big wolf-dog called the ‘Prime Sergeant.’ When the animal appeared, he instantly shot it, and desired the servants to tell their master that ‘until the noble peer became charitable to the wandering poor whose broken meat was devoured by hungry wolf-dogs, _he_ would not allow any such to be kept.’ He, however, left a note to say that he _permitted_ Lady Anne, Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Charlotte Brown, each to keep one _lap-dog_.

“Proud of this exploit, he rode into Lord Sligo’s town of Westport, and proclaimed in the marketplace that he had just shot the _Prime Sergeant_ dead. The whole town was alarmed; an uproar arose: but after some debate among the wisest or rather the _stoutest_ people in the town, whether George Robert Fitzgerald ought not to be arrested if possible for this deliberate murder of Counsellor Brown; he quieted all by saying, ‘I have shot a much worthier _animal_, the big watch-dog.’[16]

-----

Footnote 16:

The Prime Sergeant of the Irish bar was then Lord Sligo’s brother—a
huge, fat, dull fellow; but the great _lawyer_ of the family. Prime
Sergeant Brown was considered as an oracle by the whole county of
Mayo: yet there could scarcely be found man less calculated to _tell
fortunes_. The watch-dog was named after him.

-----

“I was at this time much attached to the family; and debating in my own mind how best to conduct myself toward my friends, I determined not to tell George Robert my opinion, as it would be in effect to declare that Lord Altamont wanted courage to defend his own honour. I therefore resolved on seeking some more plausible ground of quarrel, which soon presented itself; for at the summer assizes of Mayo, holden at Castlebar, Charles Lionel Fitzgerald prosecuted his elder brother George Robert for false imprisonment and savage conduct toward their father, upon whom George Robert had fastened a chain and dray!

“The affair came on before Lord Carleton, and I volunteered in the only cause I ever pleaded.[17]

-----

Footnote 17:

Mr. Richard Martin had been called to the Irish bar, as the eldest
sons of the most respectable families of Ireland then were, not, as
might be supposed, to practise for others, but with a supposition that
they would thereby be better enabled to defend their own _territories_
from judgments, mortgagees, custodiums, &c. &c., and to “stave off”
vulgar demands, which if too speedily conceded, might beget very
serious inconveniences.

-----

“An affidavit was produced, stating that the father was _not_ confined. I observed, ‘that Robert Fitzgerald had long notice of this cause coming on; and that the best answer would be the _attendance_ of the father when he was called as one of the magistrates in the commission for the county of Mayo.’

“Remesius Lennon, a battered old counsellor, on the other side, observed that the father was one of the worst men living, and that it would be unjust to censure any son for confining such a public nuisance.

“I opposed putting off the trial of George Robert, and concluded to this effect:—‘Though believing that, in course of a long life, this wretched father had committed many crimes, yet the greatest crime against society and the greatest sin against Heaven that he ever perpetrated, was the having _begotten the traverser_.’

“On this, George Robert said, smiling, ‘Martin, you look very healthy—you take good care of your _constitution_; but I tell you, that you have this day taken very bad care of your _life_.’

“The trial went on; and it was _proved_, among a great number of other barbarities, that the father _was_ chained by his son George Robert to a dray, and at times to a muzzled bear: a respectable jury found the traverser guilty; and Lord Carleton sentenced him to three years’ imprisonment, and to pay a fine to the king of five hundred pounds.

“‘Kissing’ at this time went ‘by favour;’ and Mr. Conally, the brother-in-law of George Robert, obtained from the late Duke of Buckingham, then Lord Lieutenant, the pardon and release of Fitzgerald.

“Some months after, I happened to pass through Castlebar, and learned that Mr. Fitzgerald was in the town. I had heard of his denunciations, but my determination was, neither to _avoid_ nor _seek_ my antagonist. Desirous of ascertaining what I had to expect, I requested a friend to call on him, and, after conversation on some ordinary subject, to say that _I_ had been in the town.

“This was done, and George Robert answered, ‘that he hoped, whenever we met, it would not be as _enemies_.’

“My friend reported this: but, on the whole, I thought it as well not to seek any occasion of meeting a person who, I apprehended, might, so soon after our dispute, be induced to depart from his pacific resolution; I therefore proceeded on my journey to Dublin.

“Mrs. Crawford, I found, had been engaged to play for a few nights at Crow Street theatre, and I determined to see her _Belvidera_. I had not long taken my seat in the front row of the stage-box, when I heard a noisy, precipitate step, and an order given in a commanding tone for the box to be opened. I turned, and saw Mr. Fitzgerald, who took his place on the next row. His look indicated rage, and I therefore left my place in front, and took my seat on the same row with him. He stared for a moment or two directly into my face, then turned away and laughed, on which I asked, ‘Have you any thing particular to say to _me_, Mr. Fitzgerald?’

“He answered, with a stern look of defiance—‘Only to tell you that I followed you from Castlebar, to proclaim you the _bully_ of the Altamonts.’

“‘You have said enough, Mr. Fitzgerald; you no doubt expect to hear from me, and it shall be early in the morning.’

“‘_I_ shall hear from _you_ to-morrow!’ he repeated, contemptuously, making, as he spoke, a blow at me, and adding, ‘this will refresh your memory.’ He then pulled back his body from behind the curtain of the box, and instantly retreated toward the lobby.

“My feet got entangled in the curtain when I rushed out to follow my antagonist, and I fell upon the floor. The present Lord Howden, then Major Craddock, kindly lifted me up. When on my feet, I sprang into the lobby, which was crowded almost to an overflow. I uttered all that rage could dictate, accused Fitzgerald of cowardice, and told him he had created the present _scene_ in order that we should be both bound over to the peace.

“‘You have got a blow,’ replied he: ‘I desire to disgrace you, and when you are punished to my liking _that_ way (and not before) you shall have the _satisfaction_ of being shot, or run through the body.’

“Next day, I met the late Lord Donoughmore, and he most kindly said, if I required it, he would deliver a message to Fitzgerald. I said, ‘No, I could not think of embroiling any friend of mine with such a fellow; that I would wear my sword, and trust to my opportunities of meeting Fitzgerald.’

“I watched his house closely for several days, but he did not appear. At this critical moment, a Mr. George Lyster called upon me, and said he would take my message to Fitzgerald.

“I answered, ‘that of all things I most desired to meet him; that I found I could not unkennel the fox; and that I would thank whomsoever should succeed in putting us face to face.’ I was, however, cautious of employing Lyster, knowing him to be Fitzgerald’s cousin, and supposing it possible he might have been employed by Fitzgerald himself: this induced me to try him and to say, ‘As you have _offered_ to go to this gentleman, I will thank you to appoint the _earliest moment_ for a meeting.’

“Mr. Lyster drew not back, but went to his cousin’s house, and was ushered by one of the servants into the drawing-room. Mr. Fitzgerald shortly entered, and as soon as Mr. Lyster hinted his business, our hero desired the footman to send one of the valets: when the latter entered, Fitzgerald said, ‘Francis, bring my cudgel with the green riband.’ When Fitzgerald got this weapon, he addressed his relative thus—‘How dare you bring a _message_ to me? Hold out your finger with the diamond-ring upon it!’ Poor Lyster obeyed, ignorant of his design, and with one blow Fitzgerald broke the finger, and the band of the ring, which fell on the floor. ‘Now,’ proceeded he, ‘I order you to take up the ring, and present it to me.’ As if thunderstruck, Lyster obeyed. When Fitzgerald got possession of the ring, he put it into paper, and returned it to Lyster, saying, ‘Young fellow, take care of the ring! put it up very safe, and don’t swear I robbed you of a present from some fair one.’

“This dialogue (recounted to me by Lyster himself) was followed by several blows, which cut and battered the young man severely. At last, he rushed to the window, drove his head through a pane of glass, and cried out for assistance. The police, hearing the cry, soon assembled; and not finding any of the city magistrates, they having seized both parties, conducted them into the presence of Mr. Justice Robinson.

“The judge first heard Lyster, and seeing him severely bruised, and supposing his skull might be fractured, declared that the prisoner could not be bailed.

“Fitzgerald now, on the other hand, asked to have his examination entered against Lyster. He stated, ‘that Lyster was his relative, and protected by him, and that I had _influenced_ the young man to deliver a message from me.’ He said, ‘that Mr. Lyster _had_ delivered such a _message_: that _he_ had answered mildly, that he would not fight Mr. Martin;’ whereon, (says Fitzgerald,) this young gentleman said, ‘Then you must fight _me_.’ My answer was, that I would not fight _any man_; on which,’ continued George Robert, ‘he made several blows of the cudgel I hold in my hand’ (his own) ‘at me. I happened to be more dexterous than my assailant, and was fortunate enough to take the weapon out of his hands, and in my own defence was obliged to strike in turn, or I should have been murdered.’

“The old judge, believing every word of so plausible a statement, said, ‘I have heard enough; I commit Lyster for trial, and bind over Mr. Fitzgerald to prosecute; and I do so, expressing my approbation of Mr. Fitzgerald’s manly conduct, in refusing to fight Mr. Martin, and thus appealing for redress to the laws of his country.’

“Shortly after this curious scene, I heard that Fitzgerald was at Castlebar, and had it intimated to him that I should be there. I travelled with Mr. H. Flood[18] in his carriage, and he kindly offered to be my friend, which I declined—fearing to have exposed him to some insult.

-----

Footnote 18:

This was the celebrated Henry Flood, the antagonist of
Grattan—certainly the ablest statesman of his day. He had himself
fought more than once; and had killed Mr. Eager, the father of Lord
Clifden, of Gowran.

-----

“I had sent my duelling pistols by a fellow who got drunk on the road, and forgot his errand;—so that I remained some hours at Lord Lucan’s house, expecting in vain their arrival, during which period I heard that Mr. Fitzgerald was parading the town with a number of persons from Turlow, his own estate, famous for its mobs trained to every kind of outrage.[19] I heard, too, that he said, I waited for Lord Altamont’s carriage, which, observed he significantly, _would not arrive_. Here I have to remark that I had written a note to Lord Altamont, to say that I would gladly compound for a slight wound in the expected affair, and that I requested his carriage might be in waiting for me at Castlebar, which is only eight miles from Westport. George Robert had heard this, and said to the mob, ‘Mr. Martin expects Altamont’s carriage, but he may wait long enough; for though the horse is a brave animal, I fancy Altamont’s are like the owner, and will not stand the smell of powder.’

-----

Footnote 19:

These were the gentry by whom the author was some time subsequently so
closely beleaguered at the yarn fair at Castlebar, as hereafter
mentioned.

-----

“These taunts reached me; and procuring a case of the common holster pistols my servant rode with, I determined to use them: but they were so stiff in the trigger that I could hardly let them off. I fastened on my sword, and putting my hand under Doctor Merlin’s arm, walked into the town, and soon saw Fitzgerald, followed by his mob. He too wore his sword, and I instantly told him to draw. He answered that he was lame, the pavement bad, and that he could not keep his footing; that I had Lord Lucan’s mob on my side; and that, in short, he would not fight me.

“I then said, ‘You will find me in the barrack-yard, where I shall remain.’

“‘I shall be in no hurry, after having struck you for your pertness,’ said he.

“On this I flung a switch into his face, walked to the barrack, and got sentries posted, with orders to keep out all persons but Mr. Fitzgerald and his friend, whilst we should be fighting. He and Mr. Fenton soon appeared: he had a good case of pistols in his hand, while I had the wretched tools I named.

“I stood against a projecting part of the barrack wall, and desired Mr. Fitzgerald to come as close as he pleased. He said a cannon would not carry _so far_. I answered, ‘I will soon cure that, for I will now march up until I lay my pistol to your face.’ I accordingly advanced, until our pistols touched. We both fired: he missed me, but I hit him full in the breast, and he fell back, supporting himself by a projection of rock, and exclaiming, ‘Honour, Martin, honour!’

“I said,—‘If you are not disabled, I will wait as long as you choose!’

“At this moment, he couched treacherously like a cat, presented, fired, and hit me. I returned the fire, and hit him: he again recovered, came up, begged my pardon, asked to shake hands, and said, ‘Altamont has caused all this, and now would not send you his carriage;—let us both kick him!’

“Flood met me at the gate, and I leaned on him. I was taken to Doctor Lendser’s, to have the wound dressed, but on the way desired my servant to go with my compliments and inquire how Mr. Fitzgerald felt. Mr. Flood said, ‘On no account make any inquiry, or, if he lives, you will have a second fight.’ I was foolish, as will appear, and sent.

“I had not been many moments in bed when my hero entered the room with a careful, timid step. He said, ‘Doctor, how do you find Mr. Martin?’ I was quite surprised, but said, ‘I am very well, and hope you are not badly hurt.’

“He then addressed me, and observed, ‘Doctor Merlin insulted me, and I consider him a bully, and instrument of yours, and as such I will make _you_ accountable.’

“I answered, ‘If I account with you, on a mutual understanding that Doctor Merlin is beneath your notice, I shall have to fight him also for such an imputation:—so put your renewed quarrel on some other ground. If you say you did not ask my pardon, I will fight you again; or if you say you are fond of such an _amusement_, I will fight ‘until my eyelids can no longer wag.’

“‘Shall you be at Sligo?’ was Mr. Fitzgerald’s _reply_.

“I said, ‘It was not my present purpose; but if he _wished_ it, I would be there, and that immediately.’

“He named the day, to which I assented. It was _reported_, but I cannot vouch for the fact, that a party was sent to intercept and murder me. Shortly after I reached Sligo, my opponent sent Sir M. Crafton to say, that ‘Mr. Fitzgerald did not require any further renewal of the quarrel;’ and thus the affair ended. My surprise at Fitzgerald’s being alive and well, after having received two shots from _horse-pistols_ full upon him, was soon cleared up; he had _plated his body_ so as to make it completely bullet proof. On receiving my fire, he fell from the force of the balls striking him direct, and touching his concealed armour.—My wound was in the body.

“The elegant and gentlemanly appearance of this man, as contrasted with the savage treachery of his actions, was extremely curious and without any parallel of which I am aware.”

RECRUITING AT CASTLEBAR.

Further particulars respecting George Robert Fitzgerald—His band of
myrmidons—Proposal made to the author—He accedes to it, and commences
the “recruiting service”—Hospitality at an Irish inn—Practical
joking—The author’s success in enlisting George Robert’s
outlaws—Serjeant Hearn and Corporal O’Mealy—Fair day at Castlebar—A
speech, succeeded by “beating orders”—Mutiny among the new levies—The
utility of hanks of yarn—An inglorious retreat, and renunciation, by
the author, of the honours of a military life.

There were few men who flourished in my early days that excited more general or stronger interest than Mr. George Robert Fitzgerald, of Turlow, the principal object of the preceding sketch. He was born to an ample fortune, educated in the best society, had read much, travelled, and been distinguished at foreign courts: he was closely allied to one of the most popular and also to one of the most eminent personages of his own country; being brother-in-law to Mr. Thomas Conolly of Castletown, and nephew to the splendid, learned, and ambitious Earl of Bristol, Bishop of Derry:—yet, so powerfully did some demon seize upon his mind, and—let us hope—disorder his intellect, that though its starting was thus brilliant, his life presented one continuous series of outrage, and his death was a death of ignominy.

I have neither space nor inclination to become his general biographer;—in truth, he has never, to my knowledge, had any true one.[20] Both his friends and enemies are now all nearly _hors de combat_. I know but two contemporaries capable of drawing his portrait; and in the words of one of these I have recited an anecdote not unworthy of being recorded.—I always conceive that a writer characterising the nearly exhausted generation of which he has been a contemporary, resembles a general who dates dispatches from the field of battle, wherein he details the actions and merits of his friends or enemies, while the subjects of the bulletin lie gasping or quite dead before him—and he himself only awaiting the fatal bullet which, even while he writes, may send him to his comrades. This is my own case!

-----

Footnote 20:

I have read, in biographical books, George Robert Fitzgerald described
as a great, coarse, violent Irishman, of ferocious appearance and
savage manners. His person and manners were totally the reverse of
this: a more polished and elegant gentleman was not to be met with.
His person was very slight and juvenile, his countenance extremely
mild and insinuating; and, knowing that he had a _turn_ for single
combat, I always fancied him too _genteel_ to kill any man except with
the _small_-sword.

-----

The singular life, and miserable death of Mr. Fitzgerald form an historic episode which the plan and character of this work will neither admit of my detailing nor altogether passing over. The consideration of his career and catastrophe arouses in the memory acts and incidents long since erased from ordinary recollection, and thus, like a mirror, reflects the manners of the age wherein he lived.

While George Robert Fitzgerald was undergoing a part of his sentence in Newgate, Dublin,[21] his brother, Charles Lionel, got possession of the house and demesne of Turlow, near Castlebar, County Mayo—one of the most lawless places then in Ireland. George Robert, as hinted in the former sketch, had armed and organised a band of desperadoes, who knew no will but his, and had no desire but his pleasure. All men were in awe of them, and the regular army alone was then held sufficient to curb their outrages. When their leader was convicted and imprisoned their spirit was somewhat depressed; but idleness and vice were by habit so deeply engrafted in their minds, that peaceable or honest means of livelihood were scouted by them. They were at length proclaimed outlaws; the military chased them; and ultimately, a sort of treaty took place, which, like our modern diplomatic negotiations, exhibited only one party endeavouring to outwit the other. The desperadoes agreed to give up all their wild courses on a promise of pardon; a great proportion declared they would “take on” for a musket; and as the army had no objection to receive robbers and murderers to fight for their king, country, and religion, their offer was accepted.

-----

Footnote 21:

Having been tried and convicted of a most _unparalleled_ series of
assaults upon, and imprisonment of, his own father, he was sentenced
to three years’ imprisonment; but, as we have before stated, was
pardoned (in six months), to the disgrace of the government.

-----

About this time my military propensities were not totally extinguished, but susceptible of being rekindled by proper stimuli—and Dean Coote, brother to Sir Eyre Coote, then Commander-in-chief in India, sent to my father, and made him what my family considered a magnificent offer—namely, that one of his sons should forthwith receive a captain’s commission in the East India Company’s service, on recruiting a hundred men for that service, and for each of which recruits, if the number were completed, twenty guineas should be paid on their being handed over to the depôt in Dublin.

In acknowledgment of this flattering offer my father immediately nominated me. I now almost fancied myself a nabob, or something better, helping to plunder and dethrone a few of the native princes—then quite plentiful, and considered fair game by the Honourable Company’s servants, civil and military. I with joy accepted the proposition—fully expecting, in four or five years, to return loaded with lacks of rupeés, and carats of diamonds, and enabled to realise all my visions of ulterior happiness. The Dean also sent me the “beating order” and instructions, with a letter of introduction, and a strong recommendation to Mr. Lionel Fitzgerald, then residing at Turlow, requesting he would aid me in enlisting his brother’s outlaws for the Company’s service, of whom above eighty had promised to accept the king’s money on terms of pardon. All now went on prosperously; the tenants of Cullenagh brought in every shilling they could rap or run, to set the young captain a-spinning; and in a week I was on my road, through frost and snow, to the county of Mayo: my father’s old huntsman, Matthew Querns, was selected to attend me as being most _sensible_, at least among the domestics of the family.

Matthew was attired in his best field clothing—namely, a green plush coat, scarlet-laced waistcoat of old times, buckskin breeches, and a black leather hunting cap. He carried my portmanteau, with my volunteer broad-sword buckled to it, behind him, and his own hunting horn was strapped by a belt about his middle:—this he sounded at every inn door, as he said, to make us _respectable_.

I was mounted on a large _white_ horse called Friday, after Robinson Crusoe’s _black_ boy. A case of huge holster pistols jogged before me, and my cavalry coat-case behind, containing my toilet, flints, a bullet mould, my flute, my beating order, with—to amuse leisure hours—a song-book, and the Sentimental Journey (then in high vogue, being totally new both in style and subject). Thus caparisoned and equipped, the late Matthew Querns and the present Sir Jonah Barrington, set out, fifty years ago, for the purpose of enlisting robbers and outlaws in Mayo, to plunder gentoos in the Carnatic, and establish the Christian religion on the plains of Hindostan.

At that period of my life, cold or fatigue was nothing when I had an object in view; and at the end of the third day’s trotting we arrived, through deep snow, bog roads, and after some tumbles (miserably tired), at a little cabin at Hallymount, near the plains of Kilcommon, where many a bloody battle had been fought in former times;—and as the ground was too rocky to dig graves, thousands of human skeletons had been covered up with stones—of which there is no scarcity in any, particularly that part of Ireland. Our reception was curious; and as affording an excellent idea of the species of inns and innkeepers then prevalent in Ireland, I shall sketch one of the oddest imaginable places of “entertainment for man and horse,”—which notification was written in large letters over the door,—and the house certainly did not belie it.

The landlord was a fat, red-nosed, pot-bellied, jovial fellow, the very emblem of goodnature and hospitality; he greeted me cordially before he knew any thing about me, and said I should have the best his house afforded, together with a hearty welcome (the welcome of an innkeeper, indeed, is generally very sincere). He also told Matthew that he never suffered his bin of oats in the stable to be closed, always leaving it to gentlemen’s beasts to eat at their own discretion—as he’d engage they would stop of themselves when they had got enough; and the more they eat at one meal, the less they would eat the next—so he should be no loser.

The inn consisted of cabins on the ground-floor only, and a very good hard dry floor it certainly was. The furniture was in character: but my bed (if I were to judge from its bulk and softness) had the best feathers of five hundred geese at least in it: the curtains had obviously once been the property of some greater personage than an innkeeper, as the marks of embroidery remained (on crimson silk), which had been carefully picked out—I suppose to sell the silver. My host begged I would not trouble myself as to dinner, as he knew what was good for me after so bad a journey. He protested that, so far as poultry, game, and lobsters went, no man in Mayo could beat him; and that he had a vessel of Powldoody oysters, which was sent him by Squire Francis Macnamara, of Doolan, for old acquaintance sake.

I promptly asked for a bottle of his best wine; but he told me he never sold a _single_ bottle to a gentleman, and hoped I would have no objection to two. Of course I acquiesced, though intending to dine alone and only to drink the half of one. I was therefore surprised to see shortly a spruce young maid-servant lay out the table for six persons, with every thing in good order:—and on dinner coming in, my landlord introduced his old wife, two smart pretty daughters, and his son, by no means a “promising boy.” He uncorked both bottles at once, and no persons ever fared more sumptuously. The wine, he said, was the finest old claret, of the “real smuggling” by Sir Neil O’Donnel’s own cutter called Paddy Whack, from the Isle of Man;—and Sir Neil (a baronet of Newport) never sent a bad hogshead to any of his _customers_: his honour’s brandy, likewise, was not a jot worse than his claret, and always tasted best of a cold morning.

We had got deep into our second bottle, of which the ladies took a glass each, while the young gentleman drank a bumper of brandy, when my host, who knew every body and every thing local, gave me the life, adventures, and character, of almost each person of note in that county, including numerous anecdotes of George Robert, which originated in, and were confined to the neighbourhood. He laughed so heartily at his own stories, that it was impossible not to join him. Tea and hot cakes followed; a roast goose, brandy punch, and old ale, made the supper, and I retired to bed hearty and careless.

Next morning I was roused rather early by a very unexpected guest, namely, a hen, which having got into my room, layed a couple of eggs at once on my coat, which lay beside me; and then, as hens accustom themselves to do, (and it is no bad practice,) she gave as loud and protracted a notice of her _accouchement_ as her voice could furnish.

I immediately rose, brought out my two eggs to our breakfast-table, and was expressing my surprise at the circumstance, when Miss Betty Jennings winked, and whispered me that it was a standing joke of her father’s.—The breakfast was nearly as good as the dinner had been the previous day; and on procuring my bill, I found I was charged eighteen pence for dinner, eighteen pence for claret, tenpence for my horses, sixpence for my breakfast, and nothing for the rest, though Matthew Querns had got dead drunk, my horses were nearly bursting, and I was little better myself. My host told me, when a guest who would drink with him had a bottle of claret, he always indulged in one himself; and that if I had drunk two, he should have thought it mighty uncivil if he had not done the same. I left his house with an impression that he was the most extraordinary innkeeper I had ever met with, and really bade adieu to himself and his daughters with regret.[22]

-----

Footnote 22:

Both Mr. Jenning’s daughters were pretty and pleasant girls. I
observed Miss Betty mending silk stockings, which was rather odd at
the plains of Kilcommon. I told her I fancied she was kind-hearted,
and had an uncommon degree of sense for her years, and she firmly
believed me. I made her a present of the “Sentimental Journey,” which
I had in my coat-case. I construed the French for her (except two
words): and on my return she told me it had taught her what
_sentiment_ was; that she found she had a great deal of sentiment
herself, but did not know the name of it before; and that she would
always keep the book in kind remembrance of the donor.

-----

Arriving in the course of the day at Turlow, I found that the whole family were at Castle Magarret; but Mr. Fitzgerald had got a letter about me, and all was ready for my reception. I found I was left to the care of one Hughy Hearn, who had been a serjeant of the band, but had changed sides and come over to Mr. Lionel at Turlow, after losing one of his arms in some skirmish for George Robert. I did not know who Hughy was at the time, or I should have kept aloof from him.

“Mr. Hearn,” said I, next day, “have you a gun in the house? I should like to go out.”

“I have, captain,” said he.

“Have you powder and shot?” said I.

“No powder,” said Hughy. “I fired all I had left of it last night at a man whom I saw skulking about the road after nightfall.”

“Did you hit him?” asked I, rather alarmed.

“I can’t say,” replied Hughy: “there was only one bullet _in it_, and it’s not so easy to shoot a man with a single bullet when the night is very dark—and I’m hard set to aim with one arm, though I dare say I all as one as _scratcht_ him, for he cried out, ‘Oh! bad luck to you, Hughy!’ and ran down the cross lane before I could get the other double to slap after him.”

I immediately set about recruiting the outlaws with the utmost activity and success. I appointed Hughy Hearn, who had but one arm, my drill-serjeant, and a monstrous athletic ruffian of the name of O’Mealy, my corporal, major, and inspector of recruits. I found no difficulty whatsoever in prevailing on them to take my money, clap up my cockade, get drunk, beat the towns-people, and swear “true allegiance to King George, Sir Eyre Coote, and myself.” This was the oath I administered to them, as they all seemed zealous to come with me; but I took care not to tell them _where_.

The kindness and hospitality I meanwhile received at Turlow, from Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, was extremely gratifying: nobody could be more interesting than the latter. There I met two remarkable persons of that country—George Lyster, whose finger was broken by George Robert Fitzgerald, as previously mentioned, and a little, decrepid sharp-witted dog, called George Elliston, who afterward challenged me, and threatened Counsellor Saurin, because we did not succeed in a bad cause of his in the King’s Bench, wherein we had taken his briefs without fees, as a matter of kindness to a pretended sufferer.

In less than a fortnight I had enlisted between fifty and sixty able, good-looking outlaws; and as my money was running low, I determined to march off my first batch of fifty men, three serjeants, and three corporals, for Dublin, and having placed them in depôt there, to return and make up my number with a replenished purse.

To give my march the greater éclat, I chose a market-day of Castlebar whereon to parade and address my company. There happened to be also a fair of linen yarn, and the street was crowded with cars laden with hanks of yarn of different sizes and colours. Having drawn up my men, I ordered each one to get a bumper of whisky; after which, taking off their hats, they gave three cheers for King George, Sir Eyre Coote, and Captain Barrington. I then made them a speech from the top of a car. I told them we were going to a place where the halfpennys were made of gold; where plunder was permitted by the Honourable Company, and the officers taught their men how to avail themselves of this permission; where robbery and murder were not hanging matters, as in Ireland; where women were married at nine years’ old, and every soldier had as many wives as he could keep from starving, with a right to rob the rich, in order to support a barrack full of them.

In short, I expatiated on all the pleasures and comforts I purposed for them; and received in return three more cheers—though neither so long or loud as I could have wished; and I perceived a good deal of whispering among my soldiers which I could not account for, save by the pain they might feel in taking leave of their fellow-robbers, as was natural enough. I was, however, soon undeceived, when, on ordering them to march, one said aloud, as if he spoke for the rest, “March _is it_? march, then, _for fat_?”

Observing their reluctance to quit Castlebar, I felt my young, slight, and giddy self swell with all the pride and importance of a martinet; I almost fancied myself a giant, and my big recruits mere pigmies. “Here, serjeant,” said I arrogantly to Hughy Hearn, “draw up those _mutineers_: fall in—fall in!” but nobody fell in, and Serjeant Hearn himself fell _back_. “Serjeant,” pursued I, “this moment arrest Corporal O’Mealy, he’s the ringleader.”

“He won’t _let_ me, captain,” replied Serjeant Hearn.

“’Tis your captain’s command!” exclaimed I.

“He says your honour’s no captain at all,” said Hughy Hearn; “only a slip of a _crimp_, nothing else but a gaoler’s son, that wants to sell the boys like _negers_, all as one as Hart and the green linnets in Dublin city.”

My choler could no longer be restrained:—I drew my broadsword, and vowed I would divide the head of the first man that refused to march. “I’ll teach these mutineers to obey his majesty’s commission and officer,” said I.

Corporal O’Mealy and two others then took off their hats, and coming up to me, said with great good-humour and civility, “Well, captain dear, you’ll forgive and forget a joke from your own boys, so you will. Sure ’twas nothin else but a parting joke for the fair, your honour! Arrah! put up that sliver of yours: sure it looks nasty in the fair, to be drawing your falchion on your own recruits, captain.”

I had no suspicion; and the hanger was scarce secure in its scabbard, when some of my soldiers came behind me, and others in front, and I was completely surrounded. “I’ll show you all that I am a captain, and a true captain,” continued I. “Here, serjeant! bring me my beating orders.”

“_Beating_—Ough! is _that_ what you’d be at?” said Corporal O’Mealy, who now assumed the command. “Ough! if it’s ‘beating’ you want, by my sowl you’ll be easily satisfied without Hughy Hearn’s orders.”

I could stand it no longer: I could not run away if I wished; a crowd was collecting around me, and so I sprang at the smallest of the recruits, whom I thought I could master, and seized him by the throat; but a smart crack given with a hank of linen yarn by some hand behind soon made me quit my prey; another crack from another quarter quickly followed. I turned round to see my executioners, when I was suddenly wheeled back by the application of a third hank. This _cracking_, like a _feu de joie_, increased every moment, and was accompanied with vociferous laughs. In short, they pounded me almost to a jelly with hanks of linen yarn, which lay ready to their hands on all the cars around us. At length, stooping down between two cars, I had the pleasure of seeing the whole of my recruits, drawn up by O’Mealy—for it appeared he was their _real captain_—march regularly by me, every fellow in turn saluting any part of me he thought proper with a hank of yarn;—and with a shout I still remember of “A George! a George! long life to our colonel!” they quitted the fair—as I learned, to take forcible possession of a house and farm from which one of them had been ejected—which feat I afterward heard they regularly performed that very night, with the addition of _roasting_ the new proprietor in his own kitchen.

Though I had no bones broken, some of my flesh took pretty much the colour and consistence of what cooks call aspic jelly. I was placed on a low garron, and returned to Turlow at night, sick, sore, and sorry. There I pretended I was only _fatigued_, and had taken cold; and after experiencing the kind hospitality of Mrs. Fitzgerald—then a most interesting young lady—on the fourth day, at an early hour of a frosty morning, old Matthew Querns and I mounted our horses, without my having obtained any thing more for my trouble, and money spent in the recruiting service, than a sound beating. A return carriage of Lord Altamont’s having overtaken me on the road, I entered it, and was set down at the little inn at Hallymount, where I remained some days with Mr. Jennings and family, recovering from my bruises, and sighing over the wreck of my fondly anticipated glories as a renowned colonel at the head of my regiment, plundering a pagoda and picking precious stones out of an idol. But, alas! having lost all the remaining cash out of my pocket during the scuffle at Castlebar, instead of a _lac_ of _rupees_, I found myself labouring under a complete _lack_ of _guineas_, and was compelled to borrow sufficient from Candy, the innkeeper at Ballynasloe, to carry me home by easy stages. Thus did my military ardour receive its definitive cooling: no ice-house ever chilled champaign more effectually. I, however, got quite enough of hospitality at Turlow, and quite enough of thrashing at Castlebar, to engraft the whole circumstances on my memory.

This journey gave me an opportunity of inspecting all the scenes of Mr. George Robert Fitzgerald’s exploits. The cave in which he confined his father, showed to me by Hughy Hearn, was concealed by bushes, and wrought under one of the old Danish moats, peculiar, I believe, to Ireland. Yet, in the perpetration of that act of brutality, almost of parricide, he kept up the singular inconsistency of his character. Over the entrance to the subterraneous prison of his parent a specimen of classic elegance is exhibited by this inscription graven on a stone:

Intus ager dulces—vivoque
Sedilia Saxo—Nympharumque domus.

A NIGHT JOURNEY.

Mr. Fitzgerald’s agent and attorney—Capriciousness of courage—Jack tar,
his intrepidity—New lights—Sailors and saints—Description of Mr.
T—— —His temerity in court and timorousness out of it—Regularly
retained by Fitzgerald—Starts with him on a journey to
Turlow—Travelling companions—The eloquent _snore_—Mr. T——’s
apprehensions—A daylight discovery—Double escape of the solicitor—His
return to Dublin—Mr. Brecknock, his successor—Fate of that
individual—The “murderer murdered.”

Mr. T——, a solicitor of repute in Dublin, had been selected by George Robert Fitzgerald to transact all his law and other business, as his attorney and agent.

The choice was extremely judicious:—Fitzgerald had made a secret vow, that while he existed, he never would encourage such a nest of _tricksters_ and _extortioners_ as attorneys, by paying _any_ bill of cost, right or wrong, long or short; and to carry this pious vow into full execution, so far as regarded _one_ attorney, he could not have made a better selection than that above stated.

There are few qualities of the human mind more capricious than courage; and I have known many instances in my passage through life, wherein men have been as courageous as a lion on one occasion, and as timorous as a little girl on others. I knew an English general who had never failed to signalise himself by intrepidity and contempt for death or fracture when engaged with the enemy, and was yet the most fearful being in the world lest he should be overset in a mail-coach. I have known men ready to fight any thing by daylight, run like hares in the night-time from the very same object. The capriciousness of courage is, indeed, so unaccountable, that it has ever been to me a source of amusing reflection. Not being myself of a very timorous disposition, and though I cannot say I ever experienced great fear of actual death in any proper reasonable way by the hands of a Christian—nay, even should it be a doctor—I always felt the greatest dread of getting a bite from the teeth of a mastiff, and never passed the heels of a horse without experiencing strong symptoms of cowardice. I always felt much stouter by daylight too than in the night-time.

I have ever observed that the courage of _sailors_ is, of all other species, the most perfect. I scarce ever met a common sailor that had _any_ sense of danger; the two most tremendous elements, fire and water, they totally disregard, and defy hurricanes and cannon, as if they were no more than _Zephyrs_ or _Catherine-wheels_. They have not the same chance of getting away with soldiers from their combats:—a sailor cannot rest one second from fighting till the battle is ended; and a few years’ experience of burning, sinking, bombarding, blasting, and blowing up,—of thunder, lightning, and shipwreck,—ossifies the _nerves_, or rather changes them into _muscles_, and renders habit second nature. The sailor, therefore, acquires a constitutional contempt for danger in all its ramifications, while the soldiers’ battles are _comparatively_ quiet, regular transactions, and their generals take themselves carefully out of the fray if they imagine they are getting the worst of it.

I have always, in fact, conceived that the noblest fighting ever invented was a sea battle, and the most intrepid animal in the creation, a British sailor. How far the new lights, in changing their natural _rum_ into _hot water_, their _grog_ into _bohea tea_, and their _naval dialect_ into _methodistical canting_, may increase their courage (which was already ample), is for the projectors to determine. Our naval victories over the whole world proved that no change of liquids was necessary: when any thing cannot be _improved_, alteration is injurious; and I cannot help thinking that one sailor sending his compliments by a cabin-boy to a brother tar, requesting the “honour of his company to take a dish of _tea_ with him after _prayers_,” is perfectly ridiculous. God send it may not be worse than ridiculous!—You may man your fleet with _saints_: but remember, it was the old _sinners_ that gained your victories.

But to recover from one of my usual digressions: I must now advert, though in a very different point of view, to the bravery of _attorneys_, and exemplify the species of capriciousness I allude to in the person of Mr. T——. There was not another solicitor or practitioner in the four courts of Dublin, who showed more fortitude or downright bravery on all _law_ proceedings. He never was known to flinch at any thing of the kind; would contest a _nisi prius_ from morning till night without sense of danger; and even after a defeat, would sit down at his desk to draw out his bill of costs, with as much _sang froid_ as a French general, in Napoleon’s time, would write despatches upon a drum-head in the midst of action.

Yet, with all this fortitude, he presented a singular example of the anomaly I have alluded to. Nature had given him a set of nerves as strong as chain cables, when used in mooring his clients’ concerns; and it seemed as if he had another and totally different set (of the nature of packthread) for his own purposes. His first set would have answered a sailor, his last a _young lady_; in plain English, he would sooner lose a good bill of costs, than run a risk of provoking any irritable country gentleman to _action_. In such cases he was the most mild, bland, and humble antagonist that a debtor could look for. Such (and, I repeat, most judiciously chosen) was the attorney of George Robert Fitzgerald. In person he was under the middle proportion;—and generally buttoned up in a black single-breasted coat, with what was then called a flaxen Beresford bob-wig, and every thing to match. I remember him well, and a neat, smug, sharp, _half-century_ man he was.

This gentleman had been newly engaged by Mr. Fitzgerald to prepare numerous leases for his desperadoes; to serve ejectments on half his reputable tenantry; to do various other acts according to law, with a high hand in the county of Galway; and to go down with him to Turlow, to see that all was duly executed. The several preparations for these things were of a very expensive description, and therefore the attorney would fain have had a little _advance_ toward stamps, office-fees, &c.: but on remotely hinting this, Mr. Fitzgerald replied (with one of those mild, engaging modes of muzzling people in which he was so great a proficient), “Surely, Mr. T——, you don’t doubt my honour and punctuality,”—which kind expression he accompanied by such a look as that wherewith the serpent is said to fascinate its prey.

This expressive glance brought down Mr. T—— to the exclamation—“O Lord, Mr. Fitzgerald, doubt your honour! O not at all, sir. I only, Mr. Fitzgerald, only—”

Here George Robert, with a bland smile, and graceful motion of the hand, told him, “that he need say _no more_,” and desired him to make out his bill of costs in full, to have it ready receipted, and so soon as they arrived among Mr. Fitzgerald’s tenantry at Turlow, Mr. T—— might be assured he’d pay him off entirely _without taxing_.

Mr. T—— was quite charmed, expressed his satisfaction, and declared his readiness to accompany his client to Turlow, after a few days’ preparation in engrossing leases, having one thousand five hundred ejectments filled up, and other preliminaries. “And be so good,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, “to include in your bill, this time, all the expenses of your former journey to Turlow (where I fear you were badly accommodated), as well as what may be due upon every other account. I intend to settle all at once.”