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.”
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.