warrant ye’ll find me the best customer in your house! But there
must be a small matter of mistake in my election; and, as I should
not wish to be so ungenteel as to take my sate among my dear friends
above-stairs, until that mistake is duly rectified, you’ll just step
up and make my compliments to the gentlemen, and say, as it is only
a mistake of _one_ black ball, they will be so good as to waive all
ceremony on my account, and proceed to re-elect their humble servant
without any more delay at all; so now, my dear Mr. Brookes, you may put
down the coffee, and I’ll be drinking it whilst the new election is
going on!”
‘Away went Mr. Brookes, glad enough to escape with whole bones, for
this time at least. On announcing the purport of his errand to the
assembly above-stairs, many of the members were panic-struck, for they
clearly foresaw that some disagreeable circumstance was likely to be
the finale of the farce they had been playing. Mr. Brookes stood silent
for some minutes, waiting for an answer, whilst several of the members
whispered, and laughed, in groups, at the ludicrous figure which they
all cut. At length the Earl of March (afterwards Duke of Queensbury)
said aloud,
‘“Try the effect of _two_ black balls; d----n his Irish impudence; if
two balls don’t take effect upon him, I don’t know what will.” This
proposition met with unanimous approbation, and Mr. Brookes was ordered
to communicate accordingly.
‘On re-entering the waiting-room, Mr. Fitzgerald rose hastily from his
chair, and, seizing him by the hand, eagerly inquired,
‘“Have they elected me right now, Mr. Brookes?”
‘“I hope no offence, Mr. Fitzgerald,” said the landlord, “but I am
sorry to inform you that the result of the second balloting is--that
_two_ black balls were dropped in, sir.”
‘“By J----s, then,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “there’s now _two_ mistakes
instead of one. Go back, my dear friend, and tell the honourable
members that it is a very uncivil thing to keep a gentleman waiting
below-stairs, with no one to keep him company but himself, whilst
they are enjoying themselves with their champagne, and their cards,
and their Tokay, up above. Tell them to try again, and I hope they
will have better luck this time, and make no more mistakes, because
it’s getting late, and I won’t be chose to-night at all. So now, Mr.
Brookes, be off with yourself, and lave the door open till I see what
despatch you make.”’
Away went Mr. Brookes for the last time. On announcing his unwelcome
errand, everyone saw that palliative measures only prolonged the
dilemma: and General Fitzpatrick proposed that Brookes should tell him:
“His cause was hopeless, for that he was _black-balled all over_ from
head to foot, and it was hoped by all the members that Mr. Fitzgerald
would not persist in thrusting himself into society where his company
was declined.”
‘This message, it was generally believed, would prove a sickener, as
it certainly would have done to any other candidate under similar
circumstances. Not so, however, to Fitzgerald, who no sooner heard the
purport of it, than he exclaimed,
‘“Oh, I perceive it is _a mistake altogether_, Mr. Brookes, and I must
see to the rectifying of it myself; there’s nothing like dealing with
principals, and so I’ll step up at once, and put the thing to rights,
without any more unnecessary delay.”
‘In spite of Mr. Brookes’s remonstrance that his entrance into the
club-room was against all rule and etiquette, Fitzgerald found his
way up-stairs, threatening to throw the landlord over the bannisters
for endeavouring to stop him. He entered the room without any further
ceremony than a bow, saying to the members, who indignantly rose up at
this most unexpected intrusion,
‘“Your servant, gentlemen! I beg ye will be sated.” Walking up to the
fire-place, he thus addressed Admiral Stewart: “So, my dear admiral,
Mr. Brookes informs me that I have been _elected_ three times.”
‘“You have been balloted for, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I am sorry to say you
have not been chosen,” said Stewart.
‘“Well, then,” replied the duellist, “did you black-ball me?”
‘“My good sir,” answered the admiral, “how could you suppose such a
thing?”
‘“Oh, I _supposed_ no such thing, my dear fellow, I only want to know
who it was dropped the black balls in by accident, as it were.”
‘Fitzgerald now went up to each individual member, and put the same
question _seriatim_, “Did you black-ball me, sir?” until he made the
round of the whole club; and it may well be supposed that in every
case he obtained similar answers to that of the admiral. When he
had finished his inquisition, he thus addressed the whole body, who
preserved as dread and dead a silence as the urchins at a parish school
do on a Saturday when the pedagogue orders half-a-score of them to be
_horsed_ for neglecting their catechism, which they have to repeat to
the parson on Sunday:
‘“You see, gentlemen, that as none of ye have black-balled me, _I
must be chose_; and it is Misthur Brookes that has made the mistake.
But I was convinced of it from the beginning, and I am only sorry
that so much time has been lost as to prevent honourable gentlemen
from enjoying each other’s good company sooner. Waither! Come here,
you rascal, and bring me a bottle of champagne, till I drink long
life to the club, and wish them joy of their unanimous election of a
raal gentleman by father and mother, and--” this part of Fitzgerald’s
address excited the risible muscles of everyone present; but he soon
restored them to their former lugubrious position by casting around
him a ferocious look, and saying, in a voice of thunder--“_and who
never missed his man_! Go for the champagne, waithur; and, d’ye hear,
sur, tell your masthur--Misthur Brookes, that is--not to make any more
mistakes about black balls, for, though it is below a gentleman to
call him out, I will find other means of giving him a bagful of broken
bones.”
‘The members now saw that there was nothing for it but to send the
intruder to Coventry, which they appeared to do by tacit agreement; for
when Admiral Stewart departed, which he did almost immediately, Mr.
Fitzgerald found himself completely cut by all “his dear friends.” The
gentlemen now found themselves in groups at the several whist-tables,
and no one chose to reply to his observations, nor to return even
a nod to the toasts and healths which he drank whilst discussing
three bottles of the sparkling liquor which the terrified waiter
placed before him in succession. At length, finding that no one would
communicate with him in either kind, either for drinking or for
fighting, he arose, and, making a low bow, took his leave as follows:
‘“Gentlemen, I bid you all good night; I am glad to find ye so
_sociable_. I’ll take care to come earlier next night, and we’ll have a
little more of it, please G--d.”
‘The departure of this bully was a great relief to everyone present,
for the restraint caused by his vapouring and insolent behaviour was
intolerable. The conversation immediately became general, and it was
unanimously agreed that half-a-dozen stout constables should be in
waiting the next evening to lay him by the heels and bear him off
to the watch-house if he attempted again to intrude. Of some such
measure Fitzgerald seemed to be aware, for he never showed himself
at “Brookes’s” again, though he boasted everywhere that he had been
unanimously chosen a member of the club.’
He lived the life of a man about town, and not a very reputable one,
either a bully whom everyone feared and no one liked, until the summer
of 1773, when he appeared before the public in a dispute of which
there is a long account in a contemporary pamphlet, ‘The Vauxhall
Affray, or Macaronies defeated.’ The Rev. Henry Bate (afterwards Sir
H. B. Dudley), the proprietor and editor of the _Morning Post_, was
at Vauxhall in company with Mrs. Hartley, the actress, her husband,
Mr. Colman, and a friend, when Fitzgerald, accompanied by the Hon.
Thomas Lyttleton, Captain Croftes, and some others, all more or less
intoxicated, behaved so rudely to Mrs. Hartley that she could stand it
no longer, and complained. Parson Bate was a notable ‘bruiser,’ and he
took her part, and struck Croftes a blow. Cards were exchanged, and
next morning an interview was arranged, at which the clergyman and
officer were reconciled, when in bounced Fitzgerald, and declared, in a
most insolent manner, that Mr. Bate should give immediate satisfaction
to his friend, Captain Miles, whom, he said, the former had grossly
insulted the evening before. Miles was introduced, and declared that
he had been affronted by the clergyman, and if he did not immediately
strip and fight with him, he (Miles) would post him as a coward, and
cane him wherever he met him.
Mindful of his cloth, Mr. Bate hesitated; but Miles, saying something
about cowardice, the parson threw all consideration of his calling to
the winds, a ring was formed, and Captain Miles received the handsomest
thrashing he ever had. Soon afterwards it transpired that Captain Miles
was Fitzgerald’s own servant, who had been compelled by his master so
to behave. Mr. Bate very properly exposed the affair in the _Morning
Post_.
We next hear of him engaged in a duel with Captain Scawen of the
Guards, which was fought at Lille, and twice he fired before his
adversary. Luckily he missed him, and the second time the captain,
having fired in the air, the affair ended.
He was concerned in another duel, which made some stir at the time
(1775). There was a young fellow named Walker, the son of a plumber
and painter, whose father left him a large fortune, and Daisy Walker,
as he was called, became a cornet in Burgoyne’s Light Dragoons. His
fortune soon went in gambling, and he had to retire from the service,
whilst his guardians looked into his affairs. At that time Fitzgerald
held a bill of his for three thousand pounds, and pressed for payment.
It was ultimately compromised, and, on receipt of five hundred pounds,
he gave up the bill. Subsequently Daisy Walker made some lucky bets,
and Fitzgerald at once became clamourous for payment of two thousand
five hundred pounds. Walker denied his liability, saying the matter was
settled by the payment of five hundred pounds and the return of the
bill; but this was not Fitzgerald’s view of the matter, and he dunned
young Walker whenever he met him, and at last, at Ascot races, he cut
him across the face with his cane.
Of course, in those days, there could be but one course to be taken,
and a challenge was sent, and accepted. Walker, as being the insulted
party, should fire first. They duly met, and the distance was fixed
at ten paces, but the second who measured the ground took such
strides that it was virtually twelve paces. Walker fired, and his
antagonist was unhurt. Fitzgerald, who had the whole etiquette of the
duello at his finger’s ends, then stepped forward and apologised for
having struck Walker--which apology was accepted. But, as soon as
this ceremony was finished, Fitzgerald again began dunning for his
£2,500, and, when he was told that it was not owing, he prepared to
take his shot, offering to bet £1,000 that he hit his adversary. The
pistol missed fire, and he calmly chipped the flint, reiterating his
offer to bet. He fired, and the ball grazed Walker in the arm just
below the shoulder, but did not wound him, and they left the field.
Subsequently, however, Fitzgerald declared that Walker was ‘papered,’
_i.e._, protected in some way, and published an account of the duel in
a pamphlet, addressed to the Jockey Club. To this Walker replied, and
Fitzgerald followed up with another pamphlet, in which he says:--
‘I should most certainly have fixed it at _six_ instead of _ten_ paces.
My predilection for that admeasurement of ground is founded upon the
strictest principles of humanity. For I know, from trials successively
repeated, twenty times one after the other, I can, at that distance,
hit any part of the human body to a _line_, which, possibly you may
know, is only the _twelfth part of an inch_.’
And he again refers to his pistol-practice. ‘So, then, you had one
Surtout on; are you certain you had not half-a-dozen? If no more than
one Surtout, pray how many coats and waistcoats? You give us no account
of your under-garments. I ask these questions, Sir, because, after
reading your pamphlet, I took the same pistol, charged it with the same
quantity of powder, used a bullet cast in the same mould, measured out
twelve good paces with a yard wand, and then fired at a thick stick,
which I had previously covered over with two waistcoats lined, one coat
lined, and one double-milled drab Surtout. What think you, Sir, was the
result? Why, Sir, the ball penetrated through the Surtout, the coat,
two waistcoats, and lodged itself an inch deep in the stick. There
is nothing like experimental philosophy for a fair proof, it beats
your _ipse dixits_ all halloo. You see how ingeniously I pass away my
private hours--I am always hard at study.’
This affair made London too hot for him, and he went over to France
with an old brother officer named Baggs, and they picked up a living
by horse-racing and gambling--which led to a duel between the two, for
Baggs had fleeced a young Englishman named Sandford, and there was a
quarrel as to the division of the spoil, which ended in Fitzgerald
drawing his gloves across Baggs’ face, and Baggs returning the
compliment by dashing his hat in his partner’s face. Of course the
outcome of this was a duel, which is graphically described by Hamilton
Rowan in his ‘Autobiography.’
‘They fired together, and were in the act of levelling their second
pistols, when Baggs fell on his side, saying,
‘“Sir, I am wounded.”
‘“But you are not dead!” said Fitzgerald.
‘At the same moment he discharged his second pistol at his fallen
antagonist.
‘Baggs immediately started on his legs and advanced on Fitzgerald,
who, throwing the empty pistol at him, quitted his station, and kept a
zig-zag course across the field, Baggs following. I saw the flash of
Bagg’s second pistol, and, at the same moment, Fitzgerald lay stretched
on the ground. I was just in time to catch Baggs as he fell, after
firing his second shot. He swooned from intense pain, the small bone of
his leg being broken. Mr. Fitzgerald now came up, saying,
‘“We are both wounded; let us go back to our ground.”’
But this could not be allowed, and the wounded were carried home.
Fitzgerald’s wound was in the thigh, and rendered him slightly lame
ever after.
When he got well, he returned to Ireland, and, thanks to his uncle,
the Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry, he lived in very fair style,
either in Merrion Street, Dublin, or at Rockfield, near Turlough. While
living in Dublin he fought a duel with John Toler (afterwards Lord
Norbury), fired a pistol at Denis Browne, Lord Altamont’s brother,
in Sackville Street, in broad daylight, and insulted and struck John
Fitzgibbon, afterwards Lord Chancellor Clare.
Death now took away his guardian-angel, his amiable and patient wife,
leaving him a little daughter. His grief for her loss was extravagant,
and amounted to little short of frenzy. After the funeral he behaved
more than ever like a madman. He took to hunting by night, and hunted
anything that was about after dark. In this wild chase he was always
accompanied by a band of mounted servants, carrying torches, and, when
the peasants were roused from their slumbers by the noise of hounds,
and the cries of men, they knew that Mad Fitzgerald was abroad.
When he hunted by day, he would peremptorily order home anyone to whom
he had even a fancied dislike. He would tell one man to go home for he
was more fitted to follow the plough than the hounds; another would be
bidden to go and mind his sheep, and a third would be told to quit the
field, as he was too fat for the sport. And they had to go, for their
monitor would not have scrupled to have used his whip, and, if that had
been objected to, there was always the _ultima ratio_ of a duel, and
men were rather shy of meeting ‘Fighting Fitzgerald.’
He had a particular dislike to the family of Lord Altamont, and
behaved in a most high-handed and outrageous manner towards them. For
instance, he heard that a relation of my lord’s, a Mr. Browne, was out
shooting on a bog near Westport, so he got together his men and dogs,
and went in quest of him. When Mr. Browne saw him enter on the scene,
he retired; Fitzgerald pursued, Mr. Browne increased his pace, so did
Fitzgerald, until he literally hunted the offending sportsman home.
Another time he rode over to Lord Altamont’s house, and asked to see
the wolf-dog, which, for its size and fierceness, was the admiration
and terror of the neighbourhood. No sooner was he shown the dog than
he shot it, charging the servants to tell their master that, until he
became more charitable to the poor, who only came to his door to be
barked at and bitten, he should not allow such a beast to be kept, but
that he had no objection to the three ladies of the family each keeping
a lap-dog.
After a time, his grief at the loss of his wife subsided, and he
fell in love with the only child and heiress of a Mr. Vaughan, of
Carrowmore, County Mayo, and singularly, although she well knew his
reckless character, she returned his affection. We know how he ran away
with his first wife; the story of his wedding with his second is yet
more romantic.
Mr. Vaughan was, not unnaturally, averse to Fitzgerald marrying his
daughter, but, at the same time, he did not forbid him the house. So
one night Fitzgerald was suddenly attacked by a very acute illness,
writhing about in great agony, and at last begged to be allowed to
remain there that night. In the morning he was much worse, and at
death’s door, lamenting the iniquity of his past life, and begging
that a priest should be sent for. Of course one soon came, but, in the
midst of his spiritual exercises, Fitzgerald sprang out of bed, and,
presenting a pistol to the head of the priest, swore he would blow out
his brains if he did not instantly marry him to Miss Vaughan, and the
terror-stricken priest had no option but to comply. Mr. Vaughan had to
bow to the inevitable, and the new Mrs. Fitzgerald never had reason to
complain of her husband’s treatment of her, as he was uniformly kind
and affectionate to her.
When Fitzgerald returned to Ireland, he found his father, a weak,
false, vicious old man, almost in his dotage, and entirely under the
control of his younger son Lionel, a low woman whom he had taken as
his mistress, and an unscrupulous pettifogger named Patrick Randal
MacDonnell. Charles Lionel, the younger son, was his brother’s enemy,
because he saw nothing but poverty before him if his father paid
George Robert the £1,000 a year to which he was entitled, for the old
spendthrift was always in debt. The mistress had every reason to keep
things as they were, and MacDonnell did not like to see his pickings
done away with. It is questionable whether Fitzgerald had ever received
any portion of his settlement--at all events, it was £12,000 in arrear.
He saw the estate that was ultimately to come to him being wasted, his
father getting more hopelessly into debt, and spending his substance
on an immoral and greedy woman, and he was determined to put a stop to
it. He had a difficulty to get a solicitor in Dublin to undertake his
case, but at last he found one, and arranged with him to accompany him
in his carriage to Mayo. The story of that ride is told by Sir Jonah
Barrington (vol. iii, p. 170, ed. 1832) as follows:
‘Mr. Fitzgerald sent for the attorney, and told him that, if his
going down was previously known, there would be 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 daybreak, 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 in a
hack-carriage, so that there should be no suspicion.
‘All this was 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 anybody else was coming with them, Mr.
Fitzgerald not having 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. The 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 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 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, has
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.”