Chapter VI: Part 6

Mr. T—— was still more delighted:—all matters were prepared, the bills of costs reckoned, with a full acquittance and discharge for the whole (except the date) at the conclusion, to prevent delay or cavil; all the leases, ejectments, &c. were duly packed in a trunk, and the day fixed for setting out for Turlow; when Mr. Fitzgerald sent for the attorney, and told him, that if his going down was previously known, there were several of the tenants and others, under the adverse influence of his father and brother, who would probably abscond; and that therefore, since spies were watching him perpetually, to give notice in the county of his every movement, it was expedient that he should set out two or three hours before day-break, so as to have the start of them. That his own travelling carriage should be ready near the gate of the Phœnix Park, to take up Mr. T——, who might bring his trunk of papers with him thither in a hack carriage, so that there may be no suspicion.

All this was both reasonable and proper, and accordingly done. Mr. Fitzgerald’s carriage was on the spot named, near the wall of the Phœnix Park. The attorney was punctual; the night pitch-dark; and the trunk of papers put into the boot; the windows were all drawn up; Mr. T—— stepped into the carriage with as great satisfaction as ever he had felt in his whole lifetime, and away they drove cheerily, at a good round pace, for the county of Galway.

Mr. T—— had no idea that any body else was coming with them—Mr. Fitzgerald not having at all mentioned such a thing. He found, however, a third gentleman in a travelling cloak sitting between himself and his client, who was dozing in the far corner. This stranger, too, he found not over-courteous; for though the carriage was not very roomy, and the gentleman was bulky, he showed no disposition whatever to accommodate the attorney, who begged him, with great suavity and politeness, to “move a little.” To this he received no reply, but a snoring both from the strange traveller and Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. T—— now felt himself much crowded and pressed, and again earnestly requested “the gentleman” to allow him, if possible, a little more room: but he still only received a snore in return. He now concluded that his companion was a low, vulgar fellow. His nerves became rather lax: he got alarmed, without well knowing why; he began to twitter—the twitter turned into a shake; and, as is generally the case, the shake ended with a cold sweat, and Mr. T—— found himself in a state of mind and body far more disagreeable than he had ever before experienced. The closeness and pressure had elicited a hot perspiration on the one side; while his fears produced a cold perspiration on the other: so that (quite unlike the ague he had not long recovered from) he had hot and cold fits at the same moment. All his apprehensions were now awakened: his memory opened her stores; and he began to recollect dreadful anecdotes of Mr. Fitzgerald, which he never before had credited, or indeed had any occasion to remember. The ruffians of Turlow passed as the ghosts in Macbeth before his imagination. Mr. Fitzgerald he supposed was in a fox’s sleep, and his _bravo_ in another,—who, instead of receding at all, on the contrary squeezed the attorney closer and closer. His respiration now grew impeded, and every fresh idea exaggerated his horror; his surmises were of the most frightful description; his _untaxed costs_, he anticipated, would prove his certain death, and that a cruel one! neither of his companions would answer him a single question, the one replying only by a rude snore, and the other by a still ruder.

“Now,” thought Mr. T——, “my fate is consummated. I have often heard how Mr. Fitzgerald cut a Jew’s throat in Italy, and slaughtered numerous creditors while on the grand tour of Europe. God help me! unfortunate solicitor that I am! my last day, or rather night, is come!”

He thought to let down the window, and admit a little fresh air, but it was quite fast. The whole situation was insupportable; and at length he addressed Mr. Fitzgerald, most pathetically, thus: “Mr. Fitzgerald, I’ll _date the receipt_ the moment you choose; and whenever it’s your _convenience_, I have no doubt you’ll pay it most honourably; no doubt, no doubt, Mr. Fitzgerald! but not necessary at all till perfectly _convenient_—or _never_, if more agreeable to you, and _this other gentleman_.”

Fitzgerald could now contain himself no longer, but said, quite in good-humour, “Oh, very well, Mr. T——, very well: quite time enough; make yourself easy on that head.”

The carriage now arrived at Maynooth, where the horses were instantly changed, and they proceeded rapidly on their journey—Mr. Fitzgerald declaring he would not alight till he reached Turlow, for fear of pursuit.

The attorney now took courage, and very truly surmising that the other gentleman was a _foreigner_, ventured to beg of Mr. Fitzgerald to ask “his friend” to sit _over_ a little, as he was quite _crushed_.

Mr. Fitzgerald replied, “That the party in question did not speak English;—but when they arrived at Killcock, the matter should be better arranged.”

The attorney was now compelled, for some time longer, to suffer the _hot-press_, inflicted with as little compunction as if he were only a sheet of paper; but on arriving at the inn at Killcock, dawn just appeared; and Mr. Fitzgerald, letting down a window, desired his servant, who was riding with a pair of large horse-pistols before him, to rouse the people at the inn, and get some cold provisions and a bottle of wine brought to the carriage: “And, Thomas,” said he, “get five or six pounds of raw meat, if you can—no matter of what kind—for this _foreign gentleman_.”

The attorney was now petrified:—a little twilight glanced into the carriage, and nearly turned him into stone. The stranger was wrapped up in a blue travelling cloak with a scarlet cape, and had a great white cloth tied round his head and under his chin;—but when Mr. Solicitor saw the _face_ of his companion, he uttered a piteous cry, and involuntarily ejaculated, “Murder! murder!” On hearing this cry, the servant rode back to the carriage-window and pointed to his pistols. Mr. T—— now offered his soul up to God, the stranger grumbled, and Mr. Fitzgerald, leaning across, put his hand to the attorney’s mouth, and said, he should direct his servant to give him _reason_ for that cry, if he attempted to alarm the people in the house. Thomas went into the inn, and immediately returned with a bottle of wine and some bread, but reported that there was no raw meat to be had—on hearing which, Mr. Fitzgerald ordered him to seek some at another house. The attorney now exclaimed again, “God protect me!”—Streaming with perspiration, his eye every now and then glancing toward his mysterious companion, and then starting aside with horror, he at length shook as if he were relapsing into his old ague; and the stranger, finding so much unusual motion beside him, turned his countenance upon the attorney. Their cheeks came in contact, and the reader must imagine—because it is impossible adequately to describe—the scene that followed. The stranger’s profile was of uncommon prominence; his mouth stretched from ear to ear; he had enormous grinders, with a small twinkling eye; and his visage was all bewhiskered and mustachoed, more even than Count Platoff’s of the Cossacks.

Mr. T——’s optic nerves were paralysed, as he gazed instinctively at his horrid companion; in whom, when he recovered his sense of vision sufficiently to scrutinise him, he could trace no similitude to any being on earth save a _bear_!

And the attorney was quite correct in this comparison; it was actually a Russian bear, which Mr. Fitzgerald had _educated_ from a cub, and which generally accompanied his master on his travels. He now gave bruin a rap upon the nose with a stick which he carried, and desired him to hold up his head. The brute obeyed: Fitzgerald then ordered him to _kiss_ his _neighbour_; and the beast did as he was told, but accompanied his salute with such a tremendous roar, as roused the attorney (then almost swooning) to a full sense of his danger. Self-preservation is the first law of Nature, and at once gives courage, and suggests devices. On this occasion, every other kind of law—civil, criminal, or equitable—was set aside by the attorney. All his ideas, if any he had, were centred in one word—“escape;” and as a weasel, it is said, will attack a man if driven to desperation, so did the attorney spurn the menaces of Mr. Fitzgerald, who endeavoured to hold and detain him. The struggle was violent, but brief; bruin roared loud, but interfered not. Horror strengthened the solicitor; dashing against the carriage-door, he burst it open; and tumbling out, reeled into the public-house,—then rushing through a back door, and up a narrow lane that led to the village of Summer-hill (Mr. Roly’s demesne), about two miles distant, he stumbled over hillocks, tore through hedges and ditches, and never stopped till he came breathless to the little alehouse, completely covered with mud, and his clothes in rags. He there told so incoherent a story, that the people all took him for a man either bitten by a mad-dog or broken loose from his keepers; and considered it their duty to _tie_ him, to prevent his _biting_ or other mischief. In that manner they led him to Squire Roly’s, at the great house, where the hapless attorney was pinioned and confined in a stable for some hours till the squire got up. They put plenty of milk, bread, butter, and cheese into the _manger_, from the cock-loft above, to prevent accidents as they said.

Thus situated, Mr. T—— had leisure to come somewhat to his recollection, so as to be able to tell the story rather rationally to Mr. Roly, when he came to examine him—being held fast by four men while under interrogation; the result of which nearly killed old Roly with laughter. The attorney was now released, invited into the house to clean himself, and supplied with a surtout coat and hat; and after offering as many thanksgivings as could be expected from a solicitor of those days, for his providential escape, he had a comfortable breakfast provided; and at his earnest desire, Mr. Roly sent one of his carriages, and two armed servants, with him to his own house in Dublin, where he safely arrived in due season.

This adventure was circulated throughout Dublin with rapidity (as every thing comical then was), but with many variations and additions; and I remember it a standing story in every company that relished a joke.

It was some months before Mr. T—— wholly recovered from his terror; and several clients, who lost their causes, attributed their failures to the bear having turned the brain and injured the legal capacity and intellect of their lawyer. However, as a proof of the old adage, that “whatever is, is right,” this very adventure in all probability saved Mr. T—— from being hanged and quartered (as will immediately appear). So terrific did the very idea of George Robert Fitzgerald appear to him afterward, that he never ventured to ask him for the amount of his bill of costs, and _gave_ him (in a negative way) all the leases, ejectments, and papers—together with his wardrobe, and a trifle of cash contained in his trunk which was left in the carriage.

Mr. Fitzgerald, having long had a design to put one Mr. M‘Donnell, of his county, _hors du combat_, for some old grudge, determined to seek an opportunity of doing it under the colour of M‘Donnell’s illegal resistance to a law process, which process Mr. T—— had (innocently) executed; in which case the attorney would, of course, as sportsmen say, “be in at the death.”

After the affair of the bear, no attorney or other legal man would entrust himself at Turlow;—it was, therefore, some time before Mr. Fitzgerald could carry the above purpose into execution;—when, at length, he found an old lawyer, who, with the aid of Mr. T——’s said ejectments, leases, &c. struck out a legal pretence for _shooting_ Mr. M‘Donnell, which would probably have been fathered upon poor Mr. T—— if the bear had not stood his friend and packed him off to Summerhill instead of Turlow. As it was, this man (whose name was Brecknock), who acted for Fitzgerald as agent, adviser, attorney, &c. was hanged for his pains, as an accessory before the fact, in giving Mr. Fitzgerald a _legal_ opinion; and Mr. Fitzgerald himself was hanged for the murder, solely on the evidence of his own groom, Scotch Andrew, the man who really _committed_ it, by firing the fatal blunderbuss.

There can be no doubt he deserved the death he met; but there is also no doubt he was not legally convicted; and old Judge Robinson, then accounted the best lawyer on the bench, sarcastically remarked, that “the murderer was murdered.”

This incident had escaped both my notes and memory, when it was fully revived by the affair between my good old friend, Richard Martin of Connemara, and Mr. Fitzgerald, described in a preceding sketch, and originating in the latter yoking his own father in a dray by the side of that very bear.

MARTIAL LAW.

Law in Ireland half a century ago—Its delay remedied, but not its
uncertainty—Principal and Interest—Eustace Stowell and Richard
Martin—Valuable _precedents_—A bloodless duel—High sheriffs and their
_Subs_—Irish method of serving a writ—Cases of warranty—Messrs. Reddy
Long and Charley White—The latter guarantees an unsound horse to the
author—Zeal of a _second_—Mr. Reddy Long’s valuable legacy to Sir
Jonah Barrington.

The administration of the law among gentlemen in Ireland fifty years back, is curiously illustrated by the following little narrative, the circumstances whereof have been communicated to me from such a quarter as not to admit of their being doubted.

Our laws, in their most regular course (as every body knows, who has had the honour and happiness of being much involved in them), are neither so fleet as a race-horse, nor so cheap as water-cresses. They indisputably require eloquent advocates and keen attorneys;—who expound, complicate, unriddle, or confuse, the respective statutes, points, precedents, and practice, of that simple science, which too frequently, like a burning-glass, consumes both sides of what it shines upon.

Some prudent and sensible gentlemen, therefore, principally in the country parts of Ireland (who probably had bit upon the bridle), began to conceive that justice ought to be neither so dear nor so tardy; and when they reflected that what were called their “barking irons” brought all ordinary disputes to a speedy termination—why, thought they, should not these be equally applicable to matters of law, property, and so forth, as to matters of honour? At all events, such an application would be incalculably _cheaper_, than any taxed bill of costs, even of the most conscientious solicitor.

This idea became very popular in some counties, and, indeed, it had sundry old precedents in its favour,—the writ of right and trial by battle having been originally the law of the land, and traditionally considered as far the most honourable way of terminating a suit. They considered, therefore, that what was lawful one day, could not be justly deemed unlawful another, and that by shortening the process of distributing justice, they should assist in extending it. The old jokers said, and said truly, that many a cause had been decided to a _dead_ certainty in a few minutes, by simply touching a trigger, upon which attorneys, barristers, judges, jurors, witnesses, and sometimes all the peers of the realm, spiritual and temporal, had been working and fumbling for a series of years without bringing it even to an _un_satisfactory issue.

My old and worthy friend, “Squire Martin,” afforded a most excellent illustration of this practice; and as all the parties were “gentlemen to the backbone,” the anecdote may be deemed a _respectable_ one. I have often heard the case quoted in different companies, as a beneficial mode of ensuring a compromise. But the report of my friend makes it any thing but a _compromise_ on his part. The retrograding was no doubt on the part of _the enemy_, and equally unequivocal as Moreau’s through the Black Forest, or that of the ten thousand Greeks, though neither so brave nor so bloody as either of them.

I name place, parties, cause, proceedings, and final judgment—just as I received these particulars from the defendant himself; and I consider the case as forming a very _valuable precedent_ for corresponding ones.

Eustace Stowell, Esq. challenger.

Richard Martin, Esq. acceptor.

Operator for the challenger, D. Blake, Esq.

Operator for the acceptor, Right Honourable St. George Daly, late judge of the King’s Bench, Ireland.

_Case as reported by Defendant._

Eustace Stowell lent me a sum of money on interest, which interest I had not paid _very_ regularly. Mistaking my means, I promised to pay him at a certain time, but failed. He then called on me, and said I had broken my word. I answered, “Yes, I have, but I could not help it. I am very sorry, but in a few days will satisfy the demand.” Accordingly, my worthy friend the late Earl of Mountjoy accepted my bills at three and six months for the whole amount.

Having arranged the business thus, I enclosed the bills to Mr. Eustace Stowell, who immediately returned them, saying, that as I had broken my word, he would accept of no payment but hard money.

I replied that I had no hard money, nor was there much of it afloat in my part of the country; upon which Mr. Eustace Stowell immediately sent his friend to me, requiring me either to give him cash or _personal satisfaction_; and in the latter event, to appoint time and place. My answer was, that I did not want to shoot him unless he _insisted_ upon it; but that as to _cash_, though Solomon was a wise man, and Sampson a strong one, neither of them could pay ready money if they had it not. So I prepared to engage him: my friend the Right Honourable St. George Daly, since judge of the King’s Bench, assisted in arranging preliminaries to our mutual satisfaction, and pretty early next morning we met to _fight out_ the debt in that part of the Phœnix Park called the Fifteen Acres.

Every thing proceeded regularly, as usual. Our pistols were loaded, and the distance measured, eight yards from muzzle to muzzle. I stepped on my ground, he on his. I was just presenting my pistol at his body, when, having, I suppose, a presentiment that he should go somewhere out of this world if I let fly at him, he instantly dropped his weapon, crying out, “Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin! a pretty sort of _payment_ this! You’d shoot me for my interest money, would you?”

“If it’s your _pleasure_, Mr. Eustace Stowell,” said I, “I certainly will; but it was not my desire to come here, or to shoot you. You insisted on it yourself: so go on, if you please, now we are here.”

“What security will you give me, Mr. Martin,” said he, “for my interest money?”

“What I have offered you already,” said I.

“And what’s that?” demanded Mr. Stowell.

“I offered you Lord Mountjoy’s bills at three and six months,” said I. Before I had time to finish the last words Mr. Stowell cried out, “Nothing can be better or more reasonable, Mr. Martin; I accept the offer with pleasure. No better payment can be. It is singular you did not make this offer _before_.”

“I think,” said I, “you had better take your ground again, Mr. Eustace Stowell, for I tell you I _did_ make this offer before, and may be you don’t like so plump a contradiction. If not, I’m at your service. Here is a letter under your own hand, returning the bills and declining to receive them. See, read that!” continued I, handing it him.

“Bless me!” said he, “there must be some great misunderstanding in this business. All’s right and honourable. I hope the whole will be forgotten, Mr. Martin.”

“Certainly, Mr. Stowell,” replied I: “but I trust you’ll not be so hard to please about your interest money in future, when it’s not convenient to a gentleman to pay it.”

He laughed, and we all four stepped into the same carriage, returned the best friends possible, and I never heard any thing irritating about his interest money afterward.

* * * * *

This case, however, was only a simple one on the _money counts_—a mere matter of _assumpsit_, in which all the gross and ungentlemanly legal expressions used in law declarations on _assumpsits_ were totally avoided—such as “intending thereby to deceive and defraud:”—language which, though _legal_, a Galway gentleman would as soon eat his horse as put up with from his equal—though he would bear it from a shopkeeper with sovereign indifference. When such a one, therefore, was sued in _assumpsit_ for a horse or so by a gentleman, the attorney never let his client read the law declaration—the result of which would be injurious to two of the parties at least, as one of the litigants would probably lose his life, and the attorney the litigation. The foregoing cause was conducted with as much politeness and decorum as could possibly be expected between four high well-bred persons, who, not having “the fear of God before their eyes,” but, as law indictments very properly set forth, “being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil,” had congregated for the avowed purpose of committing or aiding in one or more wilful and deliberate murders.

I must here observe that, in addition to the other advantages this mode of proceeding between gentlemen had over that of courts of justice, a certain principle of equity was understood to be connected with it. After a gentleman was regularly called out, and had duly fought the challenger respecting any sum of money, whether the trial ended in death or not, after a single shot the demand was extinguished and annulled for ever: no man can be sued twice for the same debt. Thus, the challenger in a money case stood in rather an unpleasant situation—as, exclusive of the chance of getting a _crack_, the money was for ever gone, whether his adversary lived or died—unless, indeed, the acceptor, being a “gentleman _every inch of him_,” might feel disposed to waive his “privilege.”

But this short, cheap, and decisive mode of terminating causes was not confined to simple money counts; it extended to all actions at law and proceedings in equity. The grand old procrastinators of Irish courts—_demurrers_ and _injunctions_—were thus dissolved or obviated by a _trigger_, in a shorter time than the judges took to put on their wigs and robes. Actions also of trover, assault, trespass, detenu, replevin, covenant, &c. &c. were occasionally referred to this laudable branch of jurisprudence with great success, seldom failing of being finally decided by seven o’clock in the morning.

The system was also resorted to by betters at cock-fights, horse-races, or hurlings; as well as on account of breaches of marriage-contracts with sisters, nieces, or cousins; or of distraining cattle, beating other gentlemen’s servants, &c. &c.: but none were more subject to the _trigger process_ than high sheriffs when their year was over, if they had permitted their _subs_ to _lay on_ (as they called it) such things as executions, _fieri facias_, or _scire facias_, _haberes_, &c.; or to molest the person, property, or blood relations, of any _real_ and spirited gentleman in his own bailiwick, or _out of it_.

The high sheriff being thus, by the laws of custom, honour, and the country gentlemen of Ireland, subject to be either shot or horsewhipped, or forced to commit a breach of public duty, very fortunately discovered an antidote to this poison in the person of his sub-sheriff—an officer generally selected from the breed of country attorneys. Now, it was an invariable engagement of the _sub_ that he should keep, guarantee, and preserve his _high_ from all manner of injury and annoyances. But as it was by common accord decided, that a sub-sheriff could not possibly be considered a _gentleman_, none such would do him the honour of fighting him. Yet, being necessitated to adopt some mode of keeping the _high_ out of the fangs of fire-eaters, and himself from a fracture by the _butt-end_ of a loaded whip, or the welts of a cutting one, or of having his “seat of honour” treated as if it were a foot-ball, the _sub_ struck out a plan of preventing any catastrophe of the kind—which plan, by aid of a little smart affidavit, generally succeeded extremely well in the superior courts.

When the sub-sheriff received a writ or process calculated to annoy any gentleman (_every inch of him_, or _to the backbone_), he generally sent his bailiff at night to inform the gentleman that he had such a writ or process, hoping the squire would have no objection to send him the little fees on it with a small _douceur_, and he would pledge his word and honour that the squire should hear no more about the matter for that year. If the gentleman had not by him the amount of the fees (as was generally the case), he faithfully _promised_ them, which being considered a debt of _honour_, was always, like a gambling debt, entitled to be earliest paid. Upon this, the sub, as soon as he was forced to make a return to such writs, did make a very sweeping one—namely, that the defendant had neither “body nor goods.” This was, if required, confirmed by the little smart affidavit; and if still doubted by the court, the _sub_ never wanted plenty of _respectable_ corroborating bailiffs to kiss _their thumbs_, and rescue the _high_ out of any trifling dilemma that “his honour might get into through the Dublin people, bad luck to them all! root and branch, dead or alive,” as the country _bums_ usually expressed themselves.

Of the general application of this decisive mode of adjudicating cases of warranty and guarantee, I can give a tolerably clear example in my own proper person. When very young, I was spending a day at a cottage belonging to Mr. Reddy Long, of Moat, near Ballyragget, a fire-eater, when one Mr. Charley White sold me a horse for ten guineas, which he warranted sound, and which seemed well worth the money. Next day, when the seller had departed, the beast appeared to my host (not to me) to limp somewhat, and the dealing had thereby the appearance of jockeyship and false warranty—which occurring in the house of a fire-eater, rendered the _injury_ an _insult_, and was accounted totally unpardonable. I knew, that if the beast were really lame, I could oblige the seller to return the money; and accordingly told my host that if it turned out unsound, I’d get John Humphreys, the attorney, to write to Charley White to _refund_.

“An _attorney_ write to a _gentleman_!” said Reddy Long, starting and staring at me with a frown. “Are you out of your wits, my neat lad? Why, if you sent an attorney in an affair of horse-flesh, you’d be damned in all society—you’d be out of our list, by—”

“Certainly,” said I, “it’s rather a small matter to go to law about,” (mistaking his meaning).

“Law! Law!” exclaimed Reddy, “Why, thunder and oones! _jockeying_ one is a personal insult all the world over, when it’s a _gentleman_ that resorts to it, and in the house of another gentleman. No, no; you must make him give up the _shiners_, and _no questions asked_, or I’ll have him out ready for you to shoot at in the meadows of Ahaboe by seven in the morning. See here!” said he, opening his ornamented mahogany pistol-case, “see, the boys are as bright as silver; and I’m sure if the poor things could speak, they’d thank you for getting them their liberty: they have not been out of their own house these three months.”

“Why, Reddy Long,” said I, “I vow to God I do not want to _fight_; there’s no reason for my quarrelling about it. Charley White will return my money when I ask him for it.”

“That won’t do,” said Reddy: “if the horse limps, the insult is complete; we must have no bad precedents in this county. One gentleman warranting a _limper_ to another in _private_ is a gross affront, and a hole in his skin will be indispensable. At fairs, hunts, and horse-races, indeed, its ‘catch as catch can;’ there’s no great dishonour as to beasts in the open air. That’s the rule all the world over. Law, indeed! no, no, my boy, ten guineas or death—no sort of alternative! Tom Nolan,” continued he, looking out of the window, “saddle the pony;—I’ll be with Charley White of Ballybrophy before he gets home, as sure as Ben Burton!”

“I tell you, Mr. Long,” said I, rather displeased, “I tell you I don’t want to fight, and I won’t fight. I feel no insult yet at least, and I desire you not to deliver any such message from me.”

“You do!” said Reddy Long, “you do!” strutting up and looking me fiercely in the face. “Then, if you won’t fight _him_, you’ll fight _me_, I suppose?”

“Why so?” said I.

“What’s that to you?” said he; but in a moment he softened and added, taking me by the hand, “My good lad, I know you are a mere boy, and not up to _the ways_ yet; but your father would be angry if I did not make you do yourself justice; so come, get ready, my buck, to canter off to Denny Cuff’s, where we’ll be more handy for to-morrow.”

I persisted in desiring him not to deliver any hostile message; but in vain. “If,” said he, as he mounted his pony, “you won’t fight, I must fight him myself, as the thing occurred in my house. I’ll engage that, if you did not call out Charley, all the bullock-feeders from Ossory, and that double-tongued dog from Ballybrophy at the head of them, would _post_ you at the races at Roscrea.”

Before I could expostulate further Mr. Reddy Long galloped off with a _view holloa_, to deliver a challenge for me against my will[23] to Mr. Charley White, who had given me no provocation. I felt very uneasy; however, off I rode to Cuffsborough, where I made my complaint to old Denny Cuff, whose daughter was married to Reddy Long, and whose son afterward married my sister.

-----

Footnote 23:

I had made an unbending rule, for which I was dreadfully teased in the
country, never to fight or quarrel about horse-flesh.

-----

Old Cuff laughed heartily at me, and said, “You know Charley White?”

“To be sure I do,” said I; “a civil and inoffensive man as any in Ossory.”

“That’s the very reason Reddy will deliver a challenge to him,” said Cuff.

“’Tis an odd reason enough,” answered I.

“But a right good one too,” rejoined old Cuff.—“Reddy knew that Charley would rather give _fifty_ yellow boys than stand _half_ a shot, let alone a _couple_. I’ll answer for it Reddy knows what he is about:” and so it proved.

My self-elected second returned that evening with Charley White’s groom, to take back the horse; and he brought me my ten guineas. On my thanking him, and holding out my hand to receive them, after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “You don’t want them for a day or two, do you?”

Taken completely by surprise, I answered involuntarily, “No.”

“Well, then,” said my friend Reddy, “I am going to the races of Roscrea, and I won’t give you _the ten_ till I come back. It’s all one to you, you know?” added he, begging the question.

It was _not_ all one to me: however, I was too proud or rather silly to gainsay him, and he put the pieces into his purse with a number of similar companions, and went to the races of Roscrea, where he was soon disburdened of them all, and contracted sundry obligations into the bargain. I was necessitated to go home, and never saw him after. He died very soon, and bequeathed me an excellent chestnut hunter, called Spred, with Otter, a water-dog of singular talents. I was well pleased when I heard of this; but, on inquiry, found they were _lapsed legacies_, as the horse had died of the glanders a year before, and the dog had run mad, and was hanged long ere the departure of his master. I suppose, when death was torturing poor Reddy, (for he died of the gout in his head,) he forgot that the horse had been then skinned more than a twelvemonth.

BULLETIN EXTRAORDINARY.

The author and Counsellor Moore laid by the heels at Rock House—Dismal
apprehensions—A recipe and recovery—The _races_ of Castlebar—The
author forms a party to visit the spot—Members of the party
described—Serjeant Butler and the doctor—Differences of _opinion_—The
serjeant’s bulletin of the famous battle of Castlebar.

After fifteen days of one of the hottest election contests I had ever witnessed, I accompanied my friend, Counsellor Moore, to his aunt’s, (Mrs. Burke of Rock House, Castlebar,) where plenty, hospitality, and the kindest attentions would have soon made amends for our past misfortunes.—But ill luck would not remit so suddenly:—we had both got a Mayo _chill_ on us, from the effects whereof, not even abundance of good claret and hot punch could protect us.

We had retired to rest after a most joyous festivity, when Moore (who had not been two hours in bed) was roused by the excruciating tortures of an inflammation of the stomach; and in less than half an hour after I heard his first groan, I found my own breath rapidly forsaking me; pins and needles seemed to be darting across my chest in all directions, and it was quite clear that another _inflammation_ had taken a fancy to _my lungs_ without giving the slightest notice. I could scarcely articulate, though my pains were not so very great as those of my poor friend: but I lost half the power of respiring, and had not even the consolation of being able to moan so loud as he. This was truly mortifying; but I contrived to thump strongly against the wainscot, which being hollow, proved an excellent _conductor_. The family took for granted that the house was on fire, or that some thief or ghost had appeared; and, roused up by different conjectures, its members of each sex, age, and rank, quickly rushed into our room screeching, and jostling each other, as they followed the old man-servant, who, with a hatchet in his hand, came on most valiantly. None waited for the ceremony of the toilet; but approached just as they had quitted their couches—not even a “blanket” being “in the alarm of fear caught up.”

The first follower of the old footman was a fat cook of Mrs. Burke’s, Honor O’Maily, who, on learning the cause of the uproar, immediately commenced clearing herself from any suspicion of _poisoning_; and cursing herself, without any reservation as to saints and devils, if the victuals, as she dressed them, were not sweet, good, and right wholesome: her pepper and salt, she vowed, had been in the house a fortnight before, and both the fritters and pancakes were fried in _her own drippings_!

Honor’s exculpatory harangue being with some difficulty silenced, a hundred antidotes were immediately suggested: Mrs. Burke, an excellent woman, soon found a receipt at the end of her cookery book for curing all manner of poisons (for they actually deemed us poisoned), either in man or beast; and the administration of this recipe was approved by one Mr. Dennis Shee, another family domestic, who said “he had been _pysoned_ himself with some love-powders by a young woman who wanted to marry him, and was cured by the very same stuff the mistress was going to make up for the counsellors; but that any how he would run off for the doctor, who to be sure knew best about the matter.”

It was now fully agreed, that some of Denis Brown’s voters had got the poison from a witch at Braefield,[24] out of spite, and all the servants cried out that there was no luck or grace for any real gentleman in that quarter from the time George Robert was hanged.

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Footnote 24:

In old times, Braefield near Turlow had been noted for witches,
several of whom had been burned or drowned for poisoning cattle,
giving love-powders to people’s _childer_ ere they came to years of
maturity, and bestowing the shaking ague on every body who was not
kind to them. When I was at Turlow, they showed me near Braefield five
high granite stones stuck up in the midst of a green field, which they
called “the Witches of Braefield.” They said there was a witch under
every one of these, buried a hundred feet deep “at any rate.”

-----

Poor Mrs. Burke was miserable on every account, since the story of “two counsellors being poisoned at Rock House” would be such a stain on the family.

Being raised up in my bed against pillows, I began to think my complaint rather _spasmodic_ than _inflammatory_, as I breathed better apace, and felt myself almost amused by the strange scenes going on around. Mrs. Burke had now prepared her antidote. Oil, salt, soapsuds, honey, vinegar, and whisky, were the principal ingredients. Of these, well shaken up in a quart bottle, she poured part down her nephew’s throat (he not being able to drink it out of a bowl), much as farriers drench a horse; and as soon as the first gulp was down, she asked poor Moore if he felt any easier. He answered her question only by pushing back the antidote, another drop of which he absolutely refused to touch. She made a second effort to _drench_ him, lest it might be _too late_; but ere any thing more could be done, the doctor, or rather apothecary and man-midwife, arrived, when bleeding, blistering, &c. &c. were had recourse to, and on the third day I was totally recovered; my poor friend got better but slowly, and after two dangerous relapses.

The incidents which had taken place in Castlebar during the French invasion, three years before, were too entertaining not to be pried into (now I was upon the spot) with all my zeal and perseverance. The most curious of battles, which was fought there, had always excited my curiosity; I was anxious to discover what really caused so whimsical a defeat. But so extremely did the several narratives I heard vary—from the official bulletin to the tale of the private soldier, that I found no possible means of deciding on the truth but by hearing every story, and _striking an average_ respecting their veracity, which plan, together with the estimate of _probabilities_, might, perhaps, bring me pretty near the true state of the affair. There had certainly been a battle and flight more humorous in their nature and result than any that had ever before been fought or accomplished by a British army; neither powder, ball, nor bayonet had fair claim to the victory; but to a single true _blunder_ was attributable that curious defeat of our pampered army—horse, foot, and artillery,—in half an hour, by a handful of half-starved Frenchmen. So promptly (as I heard) was it effected, that the occurrence was immediately named—and I suppose it still retains the appellation—“The _races_ of Castlebar.” I cannot vouch for any single piece of information I acquired; but I can repeat some of the best of it; and my readers may strike the average as I do, and form their own conclusions on the subject. At all events, the relation may amuse them; and, as far as the detail of such an event can possibly do, afford a glance at French and Irish, civil and military, high and low, aristocracy and plebeians:—undoubtedly proving that, after a battle is over, it suggests the simile of a lady after her baby is born—what was a cause of great uneasiness soon becomes a source of great amusement.

To attain this, my laudable object, the first thing I had to do was, as far as practicable, to fancy myself a general; and in that capacity, to ascertain the errors by which the battle was lost, and the conduct of the enemy after their victory. _Experientia docet_; and by these means I might obviate the same disaster on any future occasion. In pursuance of this fanciful hypothesis, my primary step was, of course, to reconnoitre the position occupied by our troops and those of the enemy on that engagement; and in order to do this with effect, I took with me a _very clever_ man, a serjeant of the Kilkenny militia, who had been trampled over by Chapman’s heavy horse in their hurry to get off, and left with half his bones broken, to recover as well as he could. He afterward returned to Castlebar, where he married, and continued to reside. An old surgeon was likewise of our party, who had been with the army, and had (as he informed me) made a most deliberate retreat when he saw the rout begin. He described the whole affair to me, being, now and then, interrupted and “_put in_,” as the corporal called it, when he was running out of the course, or drawing the long-bow. Three or four country fellows (who, it proved, had been rebels), wondering what brought us three together, joined the group; and, on the whole, I was extremely amused.

The position shown me, as originally held by the defeated, seemed, to my poor _civil_ understanding, one of the most difficult in the world to be routed out of. Our army was drawn up on a declivity of steep, rugged ground, with a narrow lake at its foot, at the right whereof was a sort of sludge-bog, too thick to swim in, and too thin to walk upon—snipes alone, as they said, having any fixed residence in, or lawful claim to it. On the other side of the lake, in front of our position, was a hill covered with underwood, and having a winding road down its side. In our rear was the town of Castlebar, and divers stone walls terminated and covered our left. None of my informants could agree either as to the number of our troops or cannon; they all differed even to the extent of thousands of men, and from four to twenty pieces of cannon. Every one of the parties, too, gave his own account in his own way. One of the rebels swore, that “though he had nothing but ‘this same little switch’ (a thick cudgel) in his fist, he knocked four or five troopers off their beasts, as they were galloping over himself, till the French gentlemen came up and _skivered_ them; and when they were once down, the ‘devil a much life’ was long left in them.”

“Were you frightened, Mr. O’Donnell?” said I (he told me that was his name).

“By my sowl!” replied O’Donnell, who seemed a decent sort of farmer, “if you had been in it that same day, your honour would have had no great objections to be out of it agin.”

“Now,” said I, “pray, Serjeant Butler, how came the Kilkenny to run away that day so soon and with so little reason?”

“Becaize we were _ordered_ to run away,” answered the serjeant.

“How can you say that, serjeant?” said the doctor. “I was myself standing bolt upright at the left of the Kilkenny when they ran without any order.”

“O yes, indeed! to be sure, doctor!” said Serjeant Butler; “but were you where I was when Captain Millar the _aidycam_ ordered us off in no time?”

“He did not,” replied the doctor.

“Why, then, since you make me curse, by J—s he _did_; becaize the officers afterward all said, that when he ordered us off, he forgot half what he had to say to us.”

“And pray, what was the other half, serjeant?” inquired I.

“Ah, then, I’ll tell you that, counsellor,” replied Butler. “That same _aidycam_ was a fat, bloated gentleman, and they said he was rather thick-winded like a beast, when his mind was not easy: so he comes up (my lord was looking at the fight, and did not mind him), and he kept puffing and blowing away while he was ordering us, till he came to the words, ‘you’ll get off,’ or ‘you’ll advance backwards,’ or some words of the same kind, I can’t exactly say what;—but it seems, when he desired us to make off, he forgot to say ‘thirty yards,’ as the officers told us at Tuam was the general’s word of command:—and as he desired us to _make off_, but didn’t order us when to _stop_, by my sowl some of us never stopped or stayed for thirty good _miles_, and long miles too, only to get a drink of water or halt a noggin of whisky, if there was any in the alehouse. And sorry enough we were, and sore likewise!—Then there was that Chapman and his heavy horse; troth I believe every horse in the place cantered over us as if we were sods of turf. Bad luck to their sowls! many a poor Kilkenny lad couldn’t get out of their way while _they_ were making off, and so they tumbled over the Kilkenny themselves, and all were tumbling and rolling together, and the French were coming on to stick us; and we were trampled and flattened in the dust, so that you’d hardly know a corpse from a sheet of brown paper, only for the red coat upon it.”

The doctor now attempted to tell the story in _his_ way, when the Kilkenny serjeant, being at length a little provoked at the other’s numerous interruptions and contradictions, exclaimed, “Arrah! doctor, be _asy_; it’s I can tell the counsellor, for it’s I that was _in it_, and almost _kilt_ too; and that’s more than you were, barring with the _fright_!”

The doctor gave him a look of sovereign contempt, and me a significant wink, as much as to say, “the fellow is mad, and drunk into the bargain.”

However, the serjeant conquered all opposition, and proceeded to give me the full narrative, in his own dialect. “Counsellor,” said he, “do you know that Chapman—so I think they called him—is as tall as any May-pole?”

“Very well,” said I.

“Well,” said the serjeant, “on the spot near the bog, where the devil could not get at us without drying it first and foremost—there we were drawn up at first, all so neat and tight on the ridge there, one would think us like iron rails, every lad of us. Very well; being firm and fast as aforesaid on the ridge, with the shaking bog by the side of _the Chapman’s_—bad cess to them, man and beast!—Oh! it was not most agreeable when the French let fly at us without giving us the least notice in life; and by my sowl, they hit some of the boys of our regiment, and that same set them a roaring and calling for a drink of water and the doctor! but the devil a doctor was _in it_; (can you deny that same?) and his honour, Lord Ormond, our colonel, grew red in the face with anger, or something or other, when he heard the boys bawling for _water_, and good reason they had, for by my sowl they were _kilt_ sure enuff. So we leathered at the French across the water, and the French leathered at us likewise. Devil such a _cracking_ ever you heard, counsellor, as on that day; and by the same token it would make a dog laugh to see how Captain Shortall with his cannons let fly at the French out of the bushes; and by my sowl, _they_ were not idle either! So, we were all fighting mighty well, as I heard General Lake say in the rear of us; and as I looked round and took off my cap to hurra, I heard the devils roar at my elbow, and saw my poor comrade, Ned Dougherty, staggering back for all the world just as if he was drunk, and the devil a nose on his face any more than on the back of my hand, counsellor, the present minute: and on a second glance at poor Ned, I saw one of his eyes not a whit better off than his nose;—so I called as loud as I could for a doctor, but the devil a one showed.”

The doctor could stand the imputation no longer, and immediately gave the retort not courteous to the serjeant.

“Why, then, do you hear that?” said the serjeant, quite coolly. “Arrah! now, how can you say you were _in it_? When Ned Dougherty was _kilt_, you know you were sitting _behind_ the cannon; and the devil a bit of you would have been seen while the powder was going, if the nose was off the _general_, let alone Ned Dougherty.”

I feared much that my whole inquiries would be frustrated by the increase of this dispute, when one of the country fellows who was by, said, “You’re right enuff, serjeant. It was myself and two boys more, after yees all ran away, that pulled the doctor from under a cart; but we let him go, becaize he towld us he had ten _childer_ and a wife, who would crack her heart if she thought he was slaughtered;—and that’s the truth, and nothing else—though the devil a wife or child ever ye had, doctor.”

I now winked at the doctor not to mind the fellows, and requested the serjeant to go on with _the battle_.

“And welcome, counsellor,” said he: “stay, where did I leave off? O! ay, at Ned Dougherty’s nose:—very well, poor Ned wasn’t kilt _dead_; only lost his nose and eye, and is very comfortable now, as he says, in Kilmainham. Very well, as I was saying, we went on slashing away like devils across the water, when, by my sowl, I heard some cracks up at the left of us, and the balls began to whiz all across us, lengthways. ‘What the deuce is this job?’ says I. ‘D—mme if I know,’ said the serjeant-major;—when Captain Millar, the general’s _aidycam_, comes up full pelt, and orders us to _get off_ as aforesaid. When we heard that same order, we thought we were fairly beat; and so, losing no time, set off as hard as we could to get into Castlebar town again ere the French could take it before us. And then, Chapman’s people, bad chance to them, cried out, ‘Get on! get on!’ and galloped away as if the devil was under their tails, and no more minded _the Kilkenny_ than if we were Norway rats, trampling us up and down, and some of them tumbling over our carcases. You’d think it was a race-course: my ribs were all knocked in, and my collar-bone broken; and—and—that’s all I know, counsellor.”

“Is that _all_, serjeant?” asked I.

“O no, counsellor,” replied he. “I have more to tell, now I think of it. Every boy in our regiment declared, if it had been Hutchinson that commanded us, the devil a one would run away if he stayed till this time, or go to the French either; but all the lads used to say afterward, ‘Why should we fight under Lake, (whom we neither knew nor cared to know,) when we had our own brave country general to the fore, that we’d stick by till death?’ and I forgot to tell you, counsellor—a hundred or so of our boys who could not run fast, thought it better to stay quiet and easy with the French than be murdered without the least reason imaginable; and so they stayed and were treated very handsome: only owld Corney hanged a good many of the poor boys at Ballynamuck; and the devil a bit better is Ireland made by hanging any body—and that’s the truth, and nothing else! Faith, if they hanged a quarter of us all, another quarter would be wanting it against the next assizes. So, what use is hanging the boys? Little good will it ever do the remainder!”

BREAKFASTS AT BALLINROBE.

Election for County Mayo—Author and Counsellor Moore at Ballinrobe—Mr.
Dan Martin’s “little paved parlour”—Preparations for a festive
breakfast—A formidable incursion—Counsellor Moore laid
prostrate—Advance of the foe—The two barristers take up an elevated
position—Disappearance of the various eatables—General
alarm—Dislodgment of the enemy—Mr. Dan Martin’s comments upon the
“affair”—_Secrets_ worth Knowing—All’s Well that Ends Well.

The following is almost too trifling an anecdote to be recorded; but, as it characterises place, time, and people, and is besides of a novel description, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of relating it. The period at which it occurred was that of the Mayo election alluded to in the last sketch.