Frequency of election-duels—Ludicrous affair between Frank Skelton and
an exciseman—Frank shoots the exciseman and runs away—His curious
reasons—Sir J. Bourke’s quadrille duel, with five hits—Mr. H. D.
G * * * y’s remarkable meeting with Counsellor O’Maher—O’Maher
hit—Civil proposition of G * * *’s second—G * * *’s gallant letter to
the author on his election for Maryborough—Honourable Barry Yelverton
challenged by nine officers at once—His elucidation of the
Fire-eaters’ Resolutions—Lord Kilkenny’s memorable duels and
law-suits—His Lordship is shot by Mr. Ball, an attorney—The heir to
his title (the Hon. Somerset Butler) challenges Counsellor
Burrowes—The latter hit, but his life saved by some gingerbread
nuts—Lord Kilkenny’s duel with Counsellor Byrne—The counsellor
wounded—Counsellor Guinness escapes a rencontre—Sketch of Counsellor
M‘Nally—His duel with the author—His three friends: all afterward
hanged—M‘Nally wounded—Bon-mot of Mr. Harding—The affair highly
beneficial to M‘Nally—His character, marriage, and death—Ancient mode
of fighting duels—The lists described—Duel of Colonel Barrington with
Squire Gilbert on horseback—Both wounded—Gilbert’s horse
killed—Chivalrous conclusion.
Our elections were more prolific in duels than any other public
meetings: they very seldom originated at a horse-race, cock-fight, hunt,
or at any place of amusement: folks then had pleasure in view, and
“something else to do” than to quarrel: but at all elections, or at
assizes, or, in fact, at any place of business, almost every man,
without any very particular or assignable reason, immediately became a
violent partisan, and frequently a furious enemy to somebody else; and
gentlemen often got themselves shot before they could tell what they
were fighting about.
At an election for Queen’s County, between General Walsh and Mr.
Warburton, of Garryhinch, about the year 1783, took place the most
curious duel of any which occurred within my recollection. A Mr. Frank
Skelton, one of the half-mounted gentlemen described in the early part
of the first volume,—a boisterous, joking, fat young fellow, called a
harmless blackguard,—was prevailed on, much against his grain, to
challenge Roberts, the exciseman of the town, for running the butt-end
of a horse-whip down his throat the night before, while he sat drunk and
sleeping with his mouth open. The exciseman insisted that snoring at a
dinner-table was a personal offence to every gentleman in company, and
would therefore make no apology.
Frank, though he had been nearly choked, was very reluctant to fight; he
said “he was sure to die if he did, as the exciseman could snuff a
candle with his pistol-ball; and as he himself was as big as a hundred
dozen of candles, what chance could he have?” We told him jocosely to
give the exciseman no time to take aim at him, by which means he might
perhaps hit his adversary first, and thus survive the contest. He seemed
somewhat encouraged and consoled by the hint, and most strictly did he
adhere to it.
Hundreds of the towns-people went to see the fight on the green of
Maryborough. The ground was regularly measured; and the friends of each
party pitched a ragged tent on the green, where whiskey and salt beef
were consumed in abundance. Skelton having taken his ground, and at the
same time two heavy drams from a bottle his foster-brother had brought,
appeared quite stout till he saw the balls entering the mouths of the
exciseman’s pistols, which shone as bright as silver, and were nearly as
long as fusils. This vision made a palpable alteration in Skelton’s
sentiments: he changed colour, and looked about him as if he wanted some
assistance. However, their seconds, who were of the same rank and
description, handed to each party his case of pistols, and half-bellowed
to them—“blaze away, boys!”
Skelton now recollected his instructions, and _lost no time_: he cocked
_both_ his pistols at once; and as the exciseman was deliberately and
most scientifically coming to his “dead level,” as he called it, Skelton
let fly.
“Holloa!” said the exciseman, dropping his level, “I’m _battered_, by
J—s!”
“Oh! the devil’s cure to you!” said Skelton, instantly firing his second
pistol.
One of the exciseman’s legs then gave way, and down he came on his knee,
exclaiming, “Holloa! holloa! you blood-thirsty villain! do you want to
take my life?”
“Why, to be sure I do!” said Skelton. “Ha! ha! have I _stiffened_ you,
my lad?” Wisely judging, however, that if he staid till the exciseman
recovered his legs, he might have a couple of shots to stand, he wheeled
about, took to his heels, and got away as fast as possible. The crowd
shouted; but Skelton, like a hare when started, ran the faster for the
shouting.
Jemmy Moffit, his own second, followed, overtook, tripped up his heels,
and cursing him for a disgraceful rascal, asked “why he ran away from
the exciseman?”
“Ough thunther!” said Skelton, “how many holes did the villain want to
have _drilled_ into his carcase? Would you have me stop to make a
_riddle_ of him, Jemmy?”
The second insisted that Skelton should return to the field, to be _shot
at_. He resisted, affirming that he had done _all_ that _honour_
required. The second called him “_a coward_!”
“By my sowl,” returned he, “my dear Jemmy Moffit, may be so! you may
call me a coward, if you please; but I did it all for _the best_.”
“The _best_? you blackguard!”
“Yes,” said Frank: “sure it’s _better_ to be a _coward_ than a _corpse_!
and I must have been either _one_ or _t’other_ of them.”
However, he was dragged up to the ground by his second, after agreeing
to fight again, if he had another pistol given him. But, luckily for
Frank, the last bullet had stuck so fast between the bones of the
exciseman’s leg that he could not stand. The friends of the latter then
proposed to strap him to a tree, that he might be able to shoot Skelton;
but this being positively objected to by Frank, the exciseman was
carried home: his first wound was on the side of his thigh, and the
second in his right leg; but neither proved at all dangerous.
The exciseman, determined on _gauging_ Frank, as he called it, on his
recovery challenged Skelton in his turn. Skelton accepted the challenge,
but said he was _tould_ he had a right to choose his own weapons. The
exciseman, knowing that such was the law, and that Skelton was no
swordsman, and not anticipating any new invention, acquiesced. “Then,”
said Skelton, “for my weapons, I choose my _fists_: and, by the powers,
you diabolical exciseman, I’ll give you such a _basting_ that your
nearest relations shan’t know you.” Skelton insisted on his right, and
the other not approving of this species of combat, got nothing by his
challenge; the affair dropped, and Skelton triumphed.
The only modern instance I recollect to have heard of as applicable to
No. 25., (refer to the regulations detailed in last sketch,) was that of
old John Bourke, of Glinsk, and Mr. Amby Bodkin. They fought near
Glinsk, and the old family steward and other servants brought out the
present Sir John, then a child, and held him upon a man’s shoulder, to
see papa fight. On that occasion, both principals and seconds engaged:
they stood at right angles, ten paces distant, and all began firing
together on the signal of a pistol discharged by an umpire. At the first
volley, the two principals were touched, though very slightly. The
second volley told better;—both the seconds, and Amby Bodkin, Esq.
staggered out of their place: they were well hit, but no lives lost. It
was, according to custom, an election squabble.
The Galway rule, No. 2., was well exemplified in a duel between an old
and very particular friend of mine and a Counsellor O’Maher, who had
given offence, yet I believe was the challenger: no ground was measured;
they fired _ad libitum_. G., never at a loss upon such occasions, took
his ground at once, and kept it steadily. O’Maher began his career at a
hundred paces distance, advancing obliquely, and gradually contracting
his circle round his opponent, who continued changing his front by
corresponding movements; both parties now and then aiming, as feints,
then taking down their pistols. This _pas de deux_ lasted more than half
an hour, as I have been informed:—at length, when the assailant had
contracted his circle to firing distance, G. cried out, suddenly and
loudly: O’Maher obeyed the signal, and instantly fired: G. returned the
shot, and the challenger reeled back _hors de combat_.
On the same occasion, Mr. O’Maher’s second said to G.’s, (the famous
Counsellor Ned Lysight,) “Mr. Lysight, take care:—your pistol is
cocked!”—“Well, then,” said Lysight, “cock yours, and let me take a slap
at you, as we are idle!” However, this proposition was not acceded to.
There could not be a greater _game-cock_ (the Irish expression for a man
of determined courage) than my friend G—. That he was not only spirited
himself, but the cause of infusing spirit into others, will appear from
the following humorous letter which I received from him during my
contested election for Maryborough. That election gave rise to many
characteristic Irish adventures, for which this volume does not afford
compass. Lord Castlecoote, the returning officer, (himself also a joint
_proprietor_,) evinced an excessive horror of becoming acquainted with
the _reporters_. Some person having jocularly told him of my friend’s
letter, it became a subject of great amusement, and afforded a variety
of anecdotes for the Honourable Robert Moore, who supported me on that
election against his brother, the Marquis of Drogheda.
“Dublin, Jan. 29th, 1800.
“My dear Jonah,
“I have this moment sent to the mail coach-office two
bullet-moulds, not being certain which of them belongs to the
_reporters_: suspecting, however, that you may not have time to
_melt_ the _lead_, I also send half-a-dozen bullets, merely to
keep _you going_ while others are preparing.
“I lament much that my situation and political feeling prevent
me from seeing you _exhibit_ at Maryborough.
“Be _bold, wicked, steady_, and _fear nought_!
“Give a line to yours, truly,
“H. D. G.
“Jonah Barrington, Esq.”
I took his advice:—our friendship was long and close; and we never (that
I am aware of) had any cause for coolness.
There could not be a better elucidation of Rule No. 5. of the code of
honour, than an anecdote of Barry Yelverton, second son of Lord
Avonmore, baron of the exchequer.—Barry was rather too odd a fellow to
have been accounted at all times perfectly _compos mentis_. He was a
barrister. In a ball-room on circuit, where the officers of a newly
arrived regiment had come to amuse themselves and set the Munster lasses
agog, Barry, having drunk too many bumpers, let out his natural dislike
to the military, and most grossly insulted several of the officers;
abusing one, treading on the toes of another, jostling a third, and so
forth, till he had got through the whole regiment. Respect for the
women, and the not choosing to commit themselves with the black gowns on
the first day of their arrival, induced the insulted parties to content
themselves with only requiring Barry’s address, and his hour of being
seen the next morning. Barry, with great satisfaction, gave each of them
his card, but informed them that sending to him was unnecessary;—that he
was _his own second_, and would meet every man of them at eight o’clock
next morning, in the ball-room; concluding by desiring them to bring
their swords, as that was always his weapon. Though this was rather a
curious rendezvous, yet, the challenged having the right to choose his
weapon, and the place being _à propos_, the officers all attended next
day punctually, with the surgeon of the regiment and a due proportion of
small-swords, fully expecting that some of his brother gownsmen would
join in the rencontre. On their arrival, Barry requested to know how
many gentlemen had done him the honour of giving him the invitation, and
was told their names, amounting to nine. “Very well, gentlemen,” said
Yelverton, “I am well aware I abused some of you, and gave others an
offence equivalent to a blow,—which latter being the greatest insult,
we’ll dispose of those cases first, and I shall return in a few minutes
fully prepared.”
They conceived he had gone for his sword, and friends. But Barry soon
after returned alone, and resumed thus:—“Now, gentlemen, those to each
of whom I gave an equivalent to a blow will please step forward.” Four
of them accordingly did so, when Barry took from under his coat a bundle
of switches, and addressed them as follows:—“Gentlemen, permit me to
have the honour of handing each of you a switch, (according to the rule
No. 5. of the Tipperary Resolutions,) wherewith to return the blow, if
you feel any particular desire to put that extremity into practice. I
fancy, gentlemen, that settles _four_ of you; and as to the rest, here,
(handing one of his cards to each, with _I beg your pardon_ written
above his name) that’s agreeable to No. 1. (reading the Rule). Now I
fancy _all_ your cases are disposed of; and having done my duty
according to the Tipperary Resolutions, which I will never swerve
from,—if, gentlemen, you are not satisfied, I shall be on the bridge
to-morrow morning, with a case of _barking-irons_.” The officers stared,
first at him, then at each other: the honest, jolly countenance and
drollery of Barry were quite irresistible; first a smile of surprise,
and then a general laugh, took place, and the catastrophe was their
asking Barry to dine with them at the mess, where his eccentricity and
good humour delighted the whole regiment. The poor fellow grew quite
deranged at last, and died, I believe, in rather unpleasant
circumstances.
The late Lord Mount Garret (afterward Earl of Kilkenny) had for several
years a great number of law-suits on his hands at once, particularly
with some insolvent tenants, whose causes had been gratuitously taken up
by Mr. Ball, an attorney;—Mr. William Johnson and several other
gentlemen of the circuit took their briefs. His Lordship was dreadfully
tormented. He was naturally a very clever man, and devised a new mode of
carrying on his law-suits, not being able, as he said, to trust his
attorney out of his sight.
He engaged a clientless attorney, named Egan, as his working solicitor,
at a very liberal yearly stipend, upon the express terms of his
undertaking _no other business whatsoever_, and holding his office
solely in his Lordship’s own house and under his own eye and direction.
His Lordship applied to Mr. Fletcher (afterward judge) and to myself,
requesting an interview; whereupon, he informed us of his situation:
that there were generally eight or ten counsel pitted against him; but
that he would have much more reliance on the advice and _punctual_
attendance of _two_ certain, than of _ten_ straggling gentlemen; and
that, under the full conviction that one of us at least would always
attend the court when his causes were on, and not leave him in the lurch
as he had been left, he had directed his attorney to mark on our two
briefs _ten times_ the amount of what the fees should be on the other
side: “Because,” said his Lordship, “if you don’t attend, to a certainty
I must engage _ten_ counsel, as well as my opponents.” The singularity
of the proposal set us laughing, in which his Lordship joined.
Fletcher and I accepted the offer: we did punctually and zealously
attend these numerous trials, and were most liberally feed; but most
unsuccessful in our efforts; for we never were able to gain a single
cause, verdict, or motion, for our client.
The principle of strict justice certainly was with his Lordship; but
certain formalities of the law were decidedly against him: he had, in
fact, adopted an _obsolete_ mode of proceeding as a short cut: thus,
perceiving himself likely to be foiled, he determined to take another
course, quite out of _our_ line, and a course whereby no suit is decided
in modern days—namely _fight it out_, “muzzle to muzzle,” with the
attorney and _all_ the counsel on the other side.
The first procedure on this determination was a direct challenge from
his Lordship to the attorney, Mr. Ball: it was accepted, and a duel
immediately followed, in which his Lordship got the worst of it. He was
wounded by the attorney at each shot, the first taking place in his
Lordship’s right arm, which probably saved the solicitor, as his
Lordship was a most accurate marksman. The noble challenger received the
second bullet in his side, but the wound was not dangerous. The
attorney’s skin remained quite whole.
My Lord and the attorney having been thus disposed of for the time
being, the Honourable Somerset Butler (his Lordship’s son) now took the
field, and proceeded, according to due form, by a challenge to Mr. Peter
Burrowes, &c., the senior of the adversaries’ counsel (now judge
commissioner of insolvents). The invitation not being refused, the
combat took place, one chilly morning, near Kilkenny. Somerset knew his
business well; but Peter had had no practice whatever in _that line_ of
_litigation_—being good tempered and peaceable.
Few persons feel too _warm_ on such occasions, of a _cold_ morning, and
Peter formed no exception to the general rule. An old woman who sold
spiced gingerbread nuts in the street they passed through accosted the
party, extolling her nuts to the very skies, as being well spiced, and
fit to expel the wind, and to warm any gentleman’s stomach and bowels as
well as a dram. Peter bought a pennyworth on the advice of his second,
Dick Waddy, an eminent attorney, and duly receiving the change of a
sixpenny-piece, marched off to the scene of action munging his
gingerbread.
Preliminaries being soon arranged—the pistols given—ten steps
measured—the flints hammered—and the feather-springs set—Somerset, a
fine dashing young fellow, full of spirit, activity, and animation,
after making a few graceful attitudes, and slapping his arms together as
hackney-coachmen do in frosty weather, to make their fingers supple—gave
elderly Peter (who was no posture-master) but little time to take his
fighting position:—in fact, he had scarcely raised his pistol to a
wabbling level, before Somerset’s ball came _crack-dash_ against Peter’s
body! The halfpence rattled in his pocket: Peter dropped; Somerset fled;
Dick Waddy roared “murder,” and called out to Surgeon Pack. Peter’s
clothes were ripped up; and Pack, _secundum artem_, examined the
wound:—something like a black hole designated the spot where the lead
had penetrated the abdomen. The doctor shook his head, and pronounced
but one short word—“_mortal!_”—it was, however, more expressive than a
long speech. Peter groaned; his friend Waddy began to think about the
coroner; his brother barristers sighed heavily, and Peter was supposed
to be departing this world (but, as they all _endeavoured_ to persuade
him, _for a better_);—when Surgeon Pack, after another _fatal_, taking
leave of Peter, and leaning his hand on the grass to assist him in
rising, felt something hard, took it up, and looked at it curiously: the
spectators closed in the circle, to see Peter die; the patient turned
his expiring eyes toward Surgeon Pack, as much as to say—“Good bye to
you all, lads!”—when lo! the doctor held up to the astonished assembly
the _identical bullet_, which, having rattled among the heads and harps,
and gingerbread nuts, in Peter’s waistcoat-pocket, had flattened its own
body on the surface of a copper, and left His Majesty’s bust distinctly
imprinted and accurately designated, in black and blue shading, on his
subject’s carcase! Peter’s heart beat high; and finding that his
Gracious Sovereign, and the gingerbread, had saved his life, lost as
little time as possible in rising from the sod: a bandage was applied
round his body, and in a short time he was _able_ (though of course he
had no reason to be over-_willing_) to begin another combat.[9]
His Lordship having now, on his part, recovered from the attorney’s
wounds, considered it high time to recommence hostilities according to
his original plan of the campaign; and the engagement immediately
succeeding was between him and the late Counsellor John Byrne, king’s
counsel, and next in rotation of his learned adversaries.
His Lordship was much pleased with the spot upon which his son had
chosen to hit Counsellor Peter, and resolved to select the same for a
hit on Counsellor John. The decision appeared to be judicious; and, as
if the pistol itself could not be ignorant of its destination, and had
been gratified at its own previous accuracy and success, (for it was the
same,) it sent a bullet in the identical level, and Counsellor Byrne’s
carcase received a precisely similar compliment with Counsellor
Burrowes’s:—with this difference; that as the former had no gingerbread
nuts, the matter appeared more serious. I asked him during his illness
how he felt when he received the _crack_? he answered, just as if he had
been punched by the mainmast of a man of war!—certainly a grand simile;
but how far my friend Byrne was enabled to form the comparison he never
divulged to me.
-----
Footnote 9:
Mr. Peter Burrowes, K. C., was my old friend and schoolfellow. He was
one of those persons whom every body likes:—there never was a better
hearted man! We were at Temple together.
-----
My Lord having got through two counsellors, and his son a third, it
became the duty of Captain Pierce Butler (brother to Somerset) to take
_his_ turn in the lists. The barristers now began not much to relish
this species of _argument_; and a gentleman who followed next but one on
the list owned fairly to me, that he would rather be on _our_ side of
the question: but it was determined by our noble client, so soon as the
first series of combats should be finished, to begin a new one, till he
and _the lads_ had tried the mettle or “touched the inside” of all the
remaining barristers. Mr. Dick Guinness, a very good-humoured, popular,
_lisping_,[10] dapper little pleader, was next on the list; and the
Honourable Pierce Butler, his intended slaughterer, was advised, for
_variety’s sake_, to put what is called the _onus_ on that gentleman,
and thereby force _him_ to become the challenger,—which he was told by a
young parson would considerably _diminish_ the crime of _killing_ him.
-----
Footnote 10:
Lord Clare (when attorney-general) coming out of the Exchequer, which
was much crowded, was asked who was _speaking_. “Speaking!” said
Fitzgibbon; “nobody—Dick Guinness is _whistling_ a demurrer.”
-----
Dick’s friends _kindly_ and candidly informed him that he could have but
little chance—the Honourable Pierce being one of the most resolute of a
courageous family, and quite an undeviating marksman: that he had,
besides, a hot, persevering, thirsty spirit, which a _little_ fighting
would never quench: and as Dick was secretly informed that he would to a
certainty be forced to battle (it being his _turn_), and his speedy
dissolution being nearly as certain, he was recommended to settle all
his worldly concerns without delay.
But it was to be otherwise.—Providence took Dick’s part, and decided
that there should be no coroner’s inquest held on his body. The
Honourable Pierce injudiciously put his _onus_ (and rather a _wicked_
one) on Dick in _open court_ before the _judge_; an uproar ensued, and
the Honourable Pierce hid himself under the table: however, the sheriff
lugged him out, and prevented that encounter effectually; Pierce with
_great_ difficulty escaping immediate incarceration on giving his
_honour never_ to meddle with Dick, his members, or appurtenances, for
three years, commencing from the day of his _onus_. This was an
interruption which the Kilkenny family could not have foreseen; and at
length his Lordship, finding that neither the laws of the land, nor
those of battle, were likely to adjust affairs to his satisfaction,
suffered them to be terminated by the three duels already narrated.
Counsellor Leonard M‘Nally, well known both at the English and Irish
bars, and in the dramatic circles as author of that popular little piece
“Robin Hood,” &c., was one of the strangest fellows in the world. His
figure was ludicrous: he was very short, and nearly as broad as long:
his legs were of unequal length, and he had a face which no washing
could clean: he wanted one thumb, the absence of which gave rise to
numerous expedients on his part; and he took great care to have no
nails, as he regularly eat every morning the growth of the preceding
day: he never wore a glove, lest he should appear to be guilty of
_duplicity_ in concealing the want of thumb. When in a hurry, he
generally took two thumping steps with the short leg, to bring up the
space made by the long one;—and the bar, who never missed a favourable
opportunity of naming people, called him “one _pound_ two.” As being a
_poet_, the bar wags termed him “_Olympus_.” He possessed, however, a
fine eye, and by no means an ugly countenance; a great deal of middling
intellect; a shrill, full, good forensic voice; great quickness at cross
examination, with sufficient adroitness at defence; and in Ireland he
was both the staff and standing-dish of the criminal jurisdictions: in a
word, M‘Nally was a good-natured, hospitable, talented, dirty fellow,
and had, by the latter qualification, so disgusted the circuit bar, that
they refused to receive him at their mess—a cruelty I set my face
against, and every summer circuit endeavoured to vote him into the mess,
but always ineffectually; his neglect of his person, the shrillness of
his voice, and his low solicitor company, being assigned as reasons
which never could be got over.
M‘Nally had done something in the great cause of Napper and Dutton,
which brought him into still further disrepute with the bar. Anxious to
regain his station by some act equalising him with his brethren, he
determined to offend or challenge some of the most respectable members
of the profession, who, however, showed no inclination to oblige him in
that way. He first tried his hand with Counsellor * * *, a veteran of
the bar, but who, upon this occasion, according to the decision of his
fellows, refused the combat. M‘Nally, who was as intrepid as possible,
by no means despaired, and was so obliging as to honour me with the next
chance; in furtherance thereof, on very little provocation, to my
surprise, and by no means to my satisfaction, gave me the retort _not_
courteous in the Court of King’s Bench.
I was well aware of his object; and, not feeling comfortable under this
public insult, told him (taking out my watch), “M‘Nally, you shall meet
me in the Park in an hour.”
The little fellow’s eyes sparkled with pleasure at the invitation:
never, perhaps, was any person so rejoiced at a good chance of going out
of the world before dinner time. He instantly replied, “In _half an
hour_, if you please,” comparing, at the same moment, his watch with
mine:—“I hope you won’t _disappoint_ me,” continued he.
“Never fear, Mac,” answered I, “there’s not a gentleman at the bar will
be ashamed to fight you _to-morrow_, provided you live so long, which I
can’t promise;—though I confess I wish you had selected some other of
your friends for so very disagreeable an operation.”
We had no time to spare, so parted, to get ready. The first man I met
was Mr. Henry Harding, a huge, wicked, fighting King’s County
attorney.—I asked him to come out with me: to him it was “fine sport.” I
also summoned Rice Gibbon, a surgeon, who being the most ostentatious
fellow imaginable, brought an immense bag of surgical instruments, &c.
from Mercers Hospital. In forty-five minutes we were regularly posted in
the middle of the review-ground in the Phœnix-park, and the whole scene,
to any person not so seriously implicated, must have been irresistibly
ludicrous. The sun shone brightly; and Surgeon Gibbon, to lose no time
in case of a hit, spread out all his polished instruments,
dissecting-knives, forceps, scalpels, saws, tourniquets, probes of all
lengths, &c., on the _grass_, glittering in the light on one side of me.
I am sure it looked more like a _regimental_ preparation before a
battle, than for an individual encounter:—every thing was ranged in
surgical order, ready for the most desperate operations; while a couple
of young pupils from Mercers Hospital unfurled their three-tailed
bandages like so many streamers. My second having stepped nine paces,
then stood at the other side, handed me a case of pistols, and desired
me to “_work_ away by J——s.”—M‘Nally stood before me, very like a
beer-barrel on its stilling, and by his side were ranged three
unfortunate barristers, who were all soon afterward hanged and beheaded
for high-treason;—namely, John Sheers, (who was his second, and had
given him his _point-blanks_,) with Henry Sheers and Bagenal Harvey, who
came as _amateurs_. Both of the latter, I believe, were amicably
disposed, but a negociation would not be admitted by M‘Nally, (to whom
it was of great consequence to fight a _King’s Counsel_,) and to it we
went. M‘Nally presented so coolly, that I could plainly see I had but
little chance of being missed, so I thought it best to lose no time on
my part. The poor fellow staggered, and cried out, “I am hit!” and I
felt some little twitch myself, which I could not at the moment account
for. Never did I experience so miserable a feeling. He had received my
ball directly in the centre of his ribs. My doctor rushed at him with
the zeal and activity of a dissecting surgeon, and in one moment, with a
long knife, which he thrust eagerly into his waistband, ripped up his
clothes to the skin, and exposed his naked carcase to the bright sun.
The ball appeared to have hit the buckle of his suspenders
(_vulgariter_, gallows), by which it had been partially impeded, and had
turned round, instead of entering his paunch. While I was still in dread
as to the result, my second, after seeing that he had been so protected
by the suspenders, inhumanly exclaimed, “By J—, Mac, you are the only
_rogue_ I ever knew that was _saved_ by the _gallows_!”—I felt quite
happy that he was not dangerously hurt.
On returning home, I found I had not got off quite so well as I thought;
the skirt of my coat was perforated on both sides, and a scratch just
enough to break the skin had taken place on both my thighs. I did not
know this while on the ground, but it accounts for the _twitch_ I spoke
of.
My opponent soon recovered, and after the _precedent_ of being wounded
by a King’s Counsel, no barrister could afterward decently refuse to
give him satisfaction. He was, therefore, no longer insulted, and the
poor fellow has often told me since that my shot was his salvation. He
subsequently got Curran to bring us together at his house, and a more
zealous partisan I never had than M‘Nally proved himself, on my contest
for the city of Dublin, during which he did me good service.
Leonard was a great poetaster; and having fallen in love with a Miss
Ianson, daughter to a very rich attorney, of Bedford-row, London, he
wrote on her the celebrated song of “The Lass of Richmond Hill” (her
father had a lodge there). She could not withstand this, and returned
his flame. This young lady was absolutely beautiful, but quite a
slattern in her person. She likewise had a turn for versification, and
was therefore altogether well adapted to her lame lover, particularly as
she never could spare time from her poetry to _wash her hands_; a
circumstance in which M‘Nally was _sympathetic_. The father, however,
notwithstanding all this, refused his consent; and consequently, M‘Nally
took advantage of his _dramatic_ knowledge, by adopting the precedent of
Barnaby Brittle, and bribed a barber to lather old Ianson’s _eyes_ as
well as his _chin_, and with something rather sharper too than Windsor
soap. Slipping out of the room, while her father was getting rid of the
lather and the smart, this Sappho, with her limping Phaon, escaped, and
were united in the holy bands of matrimony the same evening; and she
continued making, and M‘Nally correcting, verses, till it pleased God to
call his angel away. This curious couple conducted themselves, both
generally and toward each other, extremely well, after their union. Old
Ianson partly forgave them, and made some settlement upon their
children.
The _ancient_ mode of duelling in Ireland was generally on _horseback_.
The combatants gallopped past each other, at a distance marked out by
posts which prevented a nearer approach: they were at liberty to fire at
any time from the commencement to the end of their course; but it must
be at a hand-gallop: their pistols were charged alike with a _certain_
number of bullets, slugs, or whatever was most convenient, as agreed.
There had been, from time immemorial, a spot marked out on level ground
near the Doone of Clapook, Queen’s County, on the estate of my
grand-uncle, Sir John Byrne, which I have often visited as _classic
ground_. It was beautifully situated, near Stradbally; and here,
according to tradition and legendary tales, the old captains and
chieftains used to meet and decide their differences. Often did I walk
it over, measuring its dimensions step by step. The bounds of it are
still palpable, above sixty or seventy steps long, and about forty wide:
large stones remain on the spot where, I suppose, the posts originally
stood to divide the combatants, which were about eight or nine yards
asunder—being the nearest point from which they were to fire. The time
of firing was voluntary, so as it occurred during their course, and, as
before stated, in a hand-gallop. If the quarrel was not terminated in
one course, the combatants proceeded to a second; and if it was decided
to go on after their pistols had been discharged, they then either
finished with short broad-swords on horseback, or with small-swords on
foot; but the tradition ran, that when they fought with small-swords,
they always adjourned to the rock of Donamese, the ancient fortress of
the O’Moors and the Princes of Offely. This is the most beautiful inland
ruin I have seen in Ireland. There, in the centre of the old fort, on a
flat green sod, are still visible the deep indentures of the feet both
of principals, who have fought with small rapiers, and their seconds:
every modern visitor naturally stepping into the same marks, the
indentures are consequently kept up; and it is probable that they will
be deeper a hundred years hence than they were a twelvemonth ago.
My grandfather, Colonel Jonah Barrington, of Cullenaghmore, had a great
passion for hearing and telling stories of old events, particularly
respecting duels and battles fought in his own neighbourhood, or by his
relatives: and as these were just adapted to make impression on a very
young curious mind, like mine, at the moment nearly a _carte blanche_,
(the Arabian Nights, for instance, read by a child, are never forgotten
by him,) I remember, as if they were told yesterday, many of his
recitals and traditionary tales, especially those he could himself
attest; and his face bore, to the day of his death, ample proof that he
had not been idle among the combatants of his own era. The battle I
remember best, because I heard it oftenest and through a variety of
channels, was one of my grandfather’s, about the year 1759. He and a Mr.
Gilbert had an irreconcilable grudge. (I forget the cause, but I believe
it was a very silly one.) It increased every day, and the relatives of
both parties found it must inevitably end in a combat, which, were it
postponed till the sons of each grew up, might be enlarged perhaps from
an individual into a regular _family_ engagement. It was therefore
thought better that the business should be ended at once; and it was
decided that they should fight on horseback on the green of Maryborough;
that the ground should be one hundred yards of race, and eight of
distance; the weapons of each, two holster pistols, a broad-bladed but
not very long sword (I have often seen my grandfather’s,) with basket
handle, and a skeen, or long broad-bladed dagger: the pistols to be
charged with one ball and swan-drops.
The entire country, for miles round, attended to see the combat, which
had been six months settled and publicly announced, and the
county-trumpeter, who attended the judges at the assizes, was on the
ground. My grandfather’s second was a Mr. Lewis Moore, of Cremorgan,
whom I well recollect to have seen—he long survived my grandfather:
Gilbert’s was one of his own name and family—a captain of cavalry.
All due preliminaries being arranged, the country collected and placed
as at a horse-race, and the ground kept free by the gamekeepers and
huntsmen mounted, the combatants started, and gallopped toward each
other. Both fired before they reached the nearest spot, and missed. The
second course was _more fortunate_. My grandfather received many of
Gilbert’s shot full in his face: the swan-drops penetrated no deeper
than his temple and cheek-bones; the large bullet luckily passed him.
The wounds, not being dangerous, only enraged old Jonah Barrington; and
the other being equally willing to continue the conflict, a fierce
battle, hand to hand, ensued: but I should think they did not close
totally, or they could not have escaped with life.
My grandfather got three cuts, which he used to exhibit with great glee;
one on the thick of the right arm, a second on his bridle-arm, and the
third on the outside of the left hand. His hat, which he kept to the day
of his death, was also sliced in several places; but both had iron
skull-caps under their hats, which probably saved their brains from
remaining upon the green of Maryborough.
Gilbert had received two pokes from my grandfather on his thigh and his
side, but neither disabling. I fancy he had the best of the battle,
being as strong as, and less irritable than, my grandfather, who, I
suspect, grew, toward the last, a little ticklish on the subject; for he
rushed headlong at Gilbert, closed, and instead of striking at his
person, thrust his broad-sword into the horse’s body as often as he
could, until the beast dropped with his rider underneath him: my
grandfather then leaped off his horse, threw away his sword, and putting
his skeen, or broad dagger, to the throat of Gilbert, told him to ask
his life or die, as he must do either one or the other in half a minute.
Gilbert said he would ask his life only upon the terms that, without
apology or conversation, they should shake hands heartily and be future
friends and companions, and not leave the youths of two old families to
revenge their quarrel by carving each other. These terms being quite
agreeable to my grandfather, as they breathed good sense, intrepidity,
and good heart, he acquiesced; and from that time they were the most
intimately attached and joyous friends and companions of the county
wherein they resided.
My grandfather afterward fought at Clapook Squire Neddy Fitzgerald, who
was badly shot. On this occasion, old Gilbert was my grandfather’s
second:—I remember well seeing him; as I do also, about the same time,
the late Chief Justice (then _Serjeant_) Pattison, who had come down to
Cullenaghmore to visit my grandfather, and, as I afterward discovered,
to cheat him of a borough and two seats in parliament, which he
effected. Gilbert brought me a great many sweet things; and I heard that
evening so many stories of fights at Clapook, and on the ridge of
Maryborough, that I never forgot them; and it is curious enough that I
have all my life taken the greatest delight in hearing of, or reading
about, ancient battles and chivalrous adventures. Nothing amuses me more
to this day; and hence perhaps it is, that I recollect those tales and
traditions at the present moment with perfect distinctness and accuracy:
my memory seldom fails me in any thing, and least of all in recitals
such as the foregoing.[11]
-----
Footnote 11:
I have found many notes respecting such-like matters, in old Ms.
books, &c. &c.; particularly two or three at the end of an old Cookery
book, in Ms., by my great-grandmother Lady Byrne, of Timogue, in her
own hand-writing, in 1729, with several receipts purporting to be by
Lady Rory O’Neil, of Smithfield, Dublin, who died in 1741, at a great
age. I shall revive this subject in another volume, which I
contemplate.
-----