Should anyone wish for a graphic account of Irish life in the later portion of the eighteenth century, he should read Sir Jonah Barrington’s ‘Personal Sketches of Ireland,’ and he will find afterwards that Lever’s novels afford but a faint reflection of the manners and customs existing in the west and south of Ireland. Ignorance, idleness, and dissipation were the characteristic of the wealthier classes, and a meeting of the ‘gentry’ could seldom take place without quarrelling and bloodshed. At races, fairs, and elections, the lower class enjoyed themselves likewise, after their kind, in breaking of heads and drunkenness. It was a singular state of things, but it must be borne in mind, whilst reading the following memoirs, as, otherwise, the facts therein related would scarcely be credited.34

The Fitzgeralds of County Mayo come of an ancient stock, from no less than the great Geraldine family, through the Desmond branch, and George, the father of George Robert Fitzgerald, had a very good property at Turlough, near Castlebar. It probably had some influence in his future career that ‘Fighting Fitzgerald’ should have had for his mother Lady Mary Hervey, who had been maid-of-honour to the Princess Amelia, and who was the daughter of one, and the sister of two, Earls of Bristol. The family from which she sprang was noted for eccentricity, so much so, that it passed into a saying that ‘God made Men, Women, and Herveys.’ She did not live long with her husband, his lax morality and dissipated manners could not be borne, and she left him to his own devices and returned to England. By him she had two sons, George Robert (born 1749), and Charles Lionel. The elder, in due time, was sent to Eton, where he seems to have learnt as much Latin and Greek as was requisite for a gentleman of those days, and he used occasionally in after life to write a little poetry now and again, of which one piece, ‘The Riddle,’ was printed after his execution.

From Eton he, in 1766, being then in his seventeenth year, was gazetted to a lieutenancy in the 69th regiment, and was quartered at Galway, a nice place for a newly-emancipated schoolboy, and a red-hot, wild Irishman to boot. Here he soon got into a scrape, owing to his conduct with a shop-girl, which ended in a duel, in which neither the combatants were hurt. He next managed to pick a quarrel with a young officer of his own regiment, named Thompson, who was a quiet and inoffensive man, and they met. The first round was fired by both without injury, but Lieutenant Thompson’s second bullet struck Fitzgerald’s forehead, and he fell. The surgeons, after examination, came to the conclusion that the only way to save his life was by performing upon him the operation of trepanning, or cutting a round piece out of the skull in order to relieve the pressure on the brain. It was an operation that was very risky, but in this case it was successful. Still, one cannot help thinking, judging by his after career, that his brain then received some permanent injury which deprived him of the power of reasoning, and of control over his actions.

He now left the army, and went home to live with his father. Here he lived the regular Irishman’s life of the period: hunting, shooting, cock-fighting, &c., until he fell in love with a lady of good family, a Miss Conolly of Castletown; but even here he could not act as other men do. He could not be married quietly, but ran away with his bride, and an incident in their elopement is amusingly told, it being put in the mouth of his servant.

‘But hoo did the Captain mak’ it up again wi’ the Square? Ye omadhaun, it was with the young misthress he med it up; and she took Frinch lave with him, wan fine moonlight night soon afther. It was mysel’ that had the chaise an’ four waitin’ for them; an’ a divilish good thing happened at the first inn we stopt at. The Captain in coorse ordhered the best dhrawin’-room for the misthress; an’ sure, if it was goold, she was worthy ov it. But the beggarly-lookin’ waither sed it was taken up with some grand Englishmen.

‘“Request thim,” sis the Captain, “to accommodate a lady that’s fatigued, with the apartment.”

‘Well an’ good, the waither delivered the message, when one of the Englishers roars out, “Damn the fellow’s cursed insolence, we shan’t give up the room to any rascal.”

‘“Here,” sis one of thim, “show Paddy this watch, an’ ax him to tell what o’clock it is.”

‘So the waither brings the watch with the message in to where the Captain and mysel’ was—the misthress had gone with her maid to another room to change her dhress.

‘“Very well,” sis the Captain, “I think I can show them what o’clock it is.” So he dhraws his soord, and puts the point through his chain; “Channor,” thin says he to me, “attend me.”

‘With that we went in among them, an’ the Captain sthretched over the watch at the sword’s point to ache of them, beggin’, with a polite bow, to know to which o’ thim it belonged. But little notions, ye may swair, they had ov ownin’ it theirs. Every wan o’ the cowardly rascals swore it did not belong to himsel’!

‘“Oh, I was thinkin’, jintlemen, it was all a bit ov a mistake,” sis the Captain, “so I think you must have it, Channor, for want of a betther owner.” So with that he hands it over to mysel’. It was a fine goold watch, an’ here I have it still.’

Not only was young Mrs. Fitzgerald reconciled to her relations, but an arrangement was made with old Fitzgerald that, on payment of a certain sum of money down, he would give his son a rent charge of £1,000 a year on his estate, and he had a very handsome fortune with his wife besides.

The young couple thereupon went to France, and, having introductions to the best society in Paris, enjoyed themselves immensely. He dressed splendidly, and he astonished the Parisians, who asked each other, ‘Qui est ce seigneur? d’oÙ vient il? Il n’est pas FranÇais,—Quelle magnificence! Quelle politesse! Est-il possible qu’il soit Étranger?’ In his hat he wore diamonds, and the same precious stones adorned his buckles and his sword-knot; indeed, all through his life he was fond of such gewgaws, and when his house at Turlough was wrecked by the mob—no one preventing—he estimated his loss in jewellery, &c., at £20,000. They must have been costly, for he enumerates among the stolen collection: ‘A casquet containing a complete set of diamond vest buttons, two large emeralds, a hat-band with five or six rows of Oriental pearls, worth £1,500, a large engraved amethyst, a gold watch and chain studded with diamonds, several other gold watches and seals, a great number of antique and modern rings, gold shoe and knee buckles, silver shaving apparatus, several pairs of silver shoe and knee buckles, with £6,300 worth of other jewels.’

He joined eagerly in the dissipations of the gay French capital, especially in gaming, and the twenty thousand pounds he had with his wife soon came to an end; and among other people to whom he was in debt was the Comte d’Artois, afterwards Charles X., to whom he owed three thousand pounds. One evening afterwards he offered a bet of one thousand pounds on the prince’s hand of cards, which the Comte d’Artois overhearing, he asked Fitzgerald for payment, and, being told that it was not then convenient, the prince took the Irishman by the arm, led him to the top of the stairs, and then, giving him one kick, left him to get downstairs as quickly as he could. This indignity was one which it was very hard on the hot-blooded Irishman to be obliged to endure, for he might not challenge with impunity a prince of the blood, and from the public nature of the insult he naturally lost his place in society. It was certain he must leave France; but before he left he must somehow distinguish himself. And he did it in this wise. The king was hunting at Fontainebleau, and Fitzgerald, regardless of the etiquette which always allowed the foremost place to the king and royal family, took the hunting of the pack upon himself, riding close to the hounds, cheering and encouraging them. But for some time the stag kept well in the open, and gave Fitzgerald no opportunity of showing off his horsemanship, until it suddenly turned off towards the river Seine, on the banks of which a wall had been built. This it leaped, and, to use a hunting phrase, ‘took soil’ in the river. Over streamed the hounds, and over flew Fitzgerald, reckless of a drop of fourteen feet on the other side, going plump into the river. The hunt stopped at that wall, none daring to take it, and watched with amazement Fitzgerald emerge, his feet still in the stirrups, and, swimming the river, climb the opposite bank and ride away.

He went to London, where he was well received in society, notwithstanding that his fame as a duellist was well known, he having fought eleven duels by the time he was twenty-four years of age. Whether it was then that he forced his way into Brookes’ Club I know not, but it is certain that he did, and as I cannot tell the story as well as it is told in that most amusing but anonymously written book, ‘The Clubs of London,’ I extract it.

‘Fitzgerald having once applied to Admiral Keith Stewart to propose him as a candidate for “Brookes’s,” the worthy admiral, well knowing that he must either fight or comply with his request, chose the latter alternative. Accordingly, on the night in which the balloting was to take place (which was only a mere form in this case, for even Keith Stewart himself had resolved to black-ball him), the duellist accompanied the gallant admiral to St. James’s Street, and waited in the room below, whilst the suffrages were taken, in order to know the issue.

‘The ballot was soon over, for without hesitation every member threw in a black ball, and, when the scrutiny took place, the company were not a little amazed to find not even one white one among the number. However, the point of rejection being carried nem. con., the grand affair now was as to which of the members had the hardihood to announce the same to the expectant candidate. No one would undertake the office, for the announcement was sure to produce a challenge, and a duel with Fighting Fitzgerald had in almost every case been fatal to his opponent. The general opinion, however, was that the proposer, Admiral Stewart, should convey the intelligence, and that in as polite terms as possible; but the admiral, who was certainly on all proper occasions a very gallant officer, was not inclined to go on any such embassy.

‘“No, gentlemen,” said he; “I proposed the fellow because I knew you would not admit him; but, by G—d, I have no inclination to risk my life against that of a madman.”

‘“But, admiral,” replied the Duke of Devonshire, “there being no white ball in the box, he must know that you have black-balled him as well as the rest, and he is sure to call you out, at all events.”

‘This was a poser for the poor admiral, who sat silent for a few seconds amidst the half-suppressed titter of the members. At length, joining in the laugh against himself, he exclaimed,

‘“Upon my soul, a pleasant job I’ve got into! D——n the fellow! No matter! I won’t go. Let the waiter tell him that there was one black ball, and that his name must be put up again if he wishes it.”

‘This plan appeared so judicious that all concurred in its propriety. Accordingly the waiter was a few minutes after despatched on the mission.

‘In the meantime Mr. Fitzgerald showed evident symptoms of impatience at being kept so long from his “dear friends” above stairs, and frequently rang the bell to know the state of the poll. On the first occasion he thus addressed the waiter who answered his summons:

‘“Come here, my tight little fellow. Do you know if I am chose yet?”

‘“I really can’t say, sir,” replied the young man, “but I’ll see.”

‘“There’s a nice little man; be quick, d’ye see, and I’ll give ye sixpence when ye come with the good news.”

‘Away went the little man; but he was in no hurry to come back, for he as well as his fellows was sufficiently aware of Fitzgerald’s violent temper, and wished to come in contact with him as seldom as possible.

‘The bell rang again, and to another waiter the impatient candidate put the same question:

‘“Am I chose yet, waither?”

‘“The balloting is not over yet, sir,” replied the man.

‘“Not over yet!” exclaimed Fitzgerald. “But, sure, there is no use of balloting at all when my dear friends are all unanimous for me to come in. Run, my man, and let me know how they are getting on.”

‘After the lapse of another quarter-of-an-hour, the bell was rung so violently as to produce a contest among the poor servants, as to whose turn it was to visit the lion in his den! and Mr. Brookes, seeing no alternative but resolution, took the message from the waiter, who was descending the staircase, and boldly entered the room with a coffee equipage in his hand.

‘“Did you call for coffee, sir?”

‘“D—n your coffee, sur! and you too,” answered Mr. Fitzgerald, in a voice which made the host’s blood curdle in his veins—“I want to know, sur, and that without a moment’s delay, sur, if I am chose yet.”

‘“Oh, sir!” replied Mr. Brookes, who trembled from head to foot, but attempted to smile away the appearance of fear, “I beg your pardon, sir; but I was just coming to announce to you, sir, with Admiral Stewart’s compliments, sir, that unfortunately there was one black ball in the box, sir; and, consequently, by the rules of the club, sir, no candidate can be admitted without a new election, sir; which cannot take place, by the standing regulations of the club, sir, until one month from this time, sir!”

‘During this address Fitzgerald’s irascibility appeared to undergo considerable mollification; and, at its conclusion, the terrified landlord was not a little surprised and pleased to find his guest shake him by the hand, which he squeezed heartily between his own two, saying,

‘“My dear Mr. Brookes, I’m chose; and I give ye much joy: for I’ll 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix 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.”

‘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 up his soul 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 of 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 towards 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 be-whiskered and mustachioed—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 scrutinize 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 bear 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.’

Fitzgerald, finding the estate going to the dogs—for his father was letting the lands at absurdly low prices to his favourites; as, for instance, he let his son Charles Lionel a valuable tract of land worth fifteen shillings an acre at one shilling and sixpence, and the deer park at the same price—took the necessary legal proceedings to protect himself; and, whilst they were pending, his father was arrested for a debt of £8,000, and taken to a Dublin sponging-house. Although his father had been trying to injure him by all the means in his power, yet Fitzgerald paid the debt, and became responsible for the other debts of his father, who, in return, ratified the settlement which had been in abeyance so long.

Fitzgerald then applied to the Lord Chancellor for possession of the estate, on the grounds that, under its present management, the property was deteriorating, and as security for the money his father owed him, which amounted to £20,000—£12,000 of which were arrears of his income of £1,000 per annum, and £8,000 lent to obtain his release; and, in 1780, the Chancellor made the order as prayed. Had Fitzgerald gone with bailiffs, and demanded possession, there would have been bloodshed, in all probability; for the King’s writs did not run easily in that part of Ireland. So he waited until one day, when his father went over to Turlough, and he then made a forcible entry into Rockfield, with a troop of armed dependants, and dislodged the servants then in the house.

Naturally his father did not take this quietly, and possession was not held peacefully. There were many collisions; and old Fitzgerald indicted his son for having headed a riotous mob, one of whom, he alleged, had, at his son’s instigation, attempted to take away his life, by firing a loaded musket at him. The charge could not be sufficiently proved, and Fitzgerald was acquitted.

He now turned his attention towards improving his estate, and imported some Scotch Presbyterians, a sober and industrious set of men, to whom he gave five hundred pounds towards building a meeting-house, and settled fifty pounds per annum on their minister; but his father’s party were always annoying him, and, in consequence, he refused to give maintenance to his father, who, thereupon, had recourse to the law-courts in Dublin to compel him so to do; and a writ was issued empowering the father to secure the body of his son until a maintenance was granted him. It would have been perfectly useless to have served the writ upon him at Turlough: it is probable no man could have been found bold enough to attempt it. So they waited until the next assizes at Balinrobe; and then, when they thought they had him safe in the grand jury room, they made application to the judge to arrest him there. Leave was granted, but Fitzgerald got wind of it, and when they went to capture him, lo! he was not to be found.

He evidently thought two could play at that game, and he determined to get the old man into his power. In those days, in that part of Ireland, law was not much regarded, especially by men of Fighting Fitzgerald’s stamp; and he speedily put his plan into execution. As his father was going from Balinrobe to Dublin, he was waylaid by his son and a party of armed men, and carried off vi et armis to George Robert’s house at Turlough.

This open violation of the law could not be submitted to tamely, and his younger brother went to Dublin, and stated his case before the judges, who granted him a writ of habeas corpus. But no one would serve that at Turlough, so they waited, as of aforetime, until he was at the grand jury room, and, leave having been given, his brother, who was bigger and stronger than he, went in, and, literally collaring him, dragged him out, spite of all his protests that he was a grand jury man, and could not be touched while in the exercise of his functions. He was at once put on his trial, and the grand jury found a true bill against him, unanimously: nay, more, they publicly addressed the judge in court, expressing their abhorrence of the charge made against Fitzgerald. After the finding of a true bill, his trial at once took place, in despite of all efforts to postpone it to the next assizes, and it lasted from nine in the morning until nearly twelve at night, when, the judge having summed up, the jury found him guilty, and he was fined £1,000, to be imprisoned for three years, and until he should pay the fine.

What happens next in this man’s extraordinary career is almost difficult to believe, and shows the lawless state of the country. Fitzgerald was committed to Castlebar prison, but he seems to have been at large therein, for, four days after his committal, he calmly walked out of gaol, armed with a brace of pistols, and scattering a bag of silver to be scrambled for by the gaolers. The doors were all open, a horse was in readiness, and off he went, tantivy, for Turlough, where he was welcomed by his people with volleys of small arms and discharge of cannon. These latter Fitzgerald had procured from a ship, under the pretext that they would be useful for his volunteers, of which he was the colonel. These he mounted as a regular battery, and it was garrisoned in a perfectly military manner by his volunteers.

But an escape from prison was, by the law of Ireland, deemed a capital felony, and the sheriff of the county issued proclamations and rewards for his apprehension, at which Fitzgerald only laughed, for he could rely on his men, and he had his father still in his custody, as the old man did not go away when his son was, as he thought, safely imprisoned. He was some fifteen months at large before the majesty of the law asserted itself. Then a little army, consisting of three companies of foot, a troop of horse, and a battery of artillery, under the command of Major Longford, was sent to reduce this rebel. But, when they got to Rockfield, they found the cannon spiked, and the birds flown to Killala, whither they were followed by Charles Lionel, at the head of the Castlebar volunteers. But many people gathered round Fitzgerald, and he soon had a party which was too strong for them to attack. But, a large reinforcement arriving, he had to flee, and, with his father, and two or three attendants, he put to sea in an open boat, landing on a small island in the bay of Sligo.

Here his father offered him terms, that if he would give him £3,000 to clear off his debts, and pay him a small annuity, he would give him up the estate, and completely exonerate him of all blame in his capture and detention. To these terms Fitzgerald assented, and set off with his father through bye, and unfrequented roads to Dublin. But no sooner had the old man got into his old lodging, than he refused to ratify his bargain, and set his son at defiance.

Fitzgerald, although there was a reward out of £300 for his apprehension, took no pains to conceal himself, and, consequently, had not been long in Dublin, before Town-Major Hall heard of his whereabouts, and, taking twelve soldiers of the Castle guard with him, arrested Fitzgerald, and safely lodged him in the Castle, where he was confined in the officer’s room; and there he abode till the general election, when, through the influence of his powerful friends, he was released. During his incarceration he wrote an appeal to the public on his case, although some say the author was one Timothy Brecknock, a somewhat unscrupulous lawyer whom Fitzgerald employed.

The first use he made of his newly-acquired liberty was to revenge himself on a man who he fancied had done him some grievous injury, a somewhat eccentric gentleman named Dick Martin, and he determined to insult him in the most public manner. He met him at the theatre, struck him with his cane, calling him the bully of the Altamonts, and walked away. Of course, in those days a gentleman so insulted could but do one thing, and that was to send a challenge—and Martin did send Fitzgerald one by the hand of a cousin of the latter, a Mr. Lyster. While he was explaining the object of his visit, Fitzgerald rang the bell, and requested his footman to bring him his cudgel ‘with the green ribbon.’ This being brought, he walked up to his cousin, and ferociously asked how he dared to deliver such a message to him: then, not waiting for a reply, he belaboured him most unmercifully, with such violence indeed, as to break a diamond ring from off his finger. When he considered him sufficiently punished, he made him pick up his ring and present it to him—but he did not keep it, he wrapped it up in paper, and returned it, telling his cousin not to go about swearing that he had robbed him of it.

Martin could get no satisfaction out of Fitzgerald in Dublin, the object of the latter being to let his adversary have the reputation of being an insulted man. But, afterwards, they met at Castlebar, and a meeting was arranged. Martin was hit, and his bullet struck Fitzgerald, but glanced off: according to some it hit a button; according to others, Fitzgerald was plastronÉ, or armoured.

His behaviour was more like that of a lunatic than of a sane man. Take the following example, for instance. He had a house and grounds near Dublin, and his neighbours all fought shy of him—nay, one of them, a retired officer, Captain Boulton, would neither accept his invitations nor invite him to his mansion. This conduct galled Fitzgerald, and he devised a novel method of avenging himself of the insult. He would shoot on the captain’s grounds without leave. So he went down with his man and dogs and began killing the game in fine style. This soon brought out the steward, who began to remonstrate with the trespasser. Fitzgerald’s answer was a bullet, which whizzed close to the head of the poor steward, who turned, and ran for his life, Fitzgerald after him with a second gun, with the certain determination of shooting him. Luckily the man got safely into the mansion. Baffled of his victim, Fitzgerald began abusing Captain Boulton, calling on him to come out, and give him satisfaction for his man’s behaviour. But the captain, not seeing the force of the argument, refrained, and Fitzgerald fired his gun at the dining-room window. As this, however, did not bring out the captain, he fired at the windows as fast as his man could load, and only left off when he had smashed every one of them.

Another time he waged war against all the dogs in Castlebar, shooting them whenever he got a chance; but the people did not stand it tamely; they rose, visited his kennels, and shot his dogs.

His father died; but his brother, his father’s mistress, and MacDonnell, took advantage of every circumstance in their power to maliciously vex him. Law-suits were stirred up against him, and had to be met with the assistance of Timothy Brecknock, who was Fitzgerald’s legal adviser, and the followers of both parties were not particular in exchanging a shot or two, one with the other.

At length MacDonnell kidnapped one of Fitzgerald’s servants, and kept him prisoner for twenty days. Then the man escaped, and Fitzgerald applied for, and obtained warrants against, MacDonnell and two other men, named Hipson and Gallagher. To execute these warrants personally must have been a congenial task to Fitzgerald, and he set out for that purpose, followed by a large body of men. On their approach, MacDonnell fled to the neighbouring village of Ballivary, and his friends did the best they could to defend themselves, firing on his party and wounding six or seven of them. They then went after MacDonnell, and, after more firing, succeeded in apprehending MacDonnell, Hipson, and Gallagher. These unfortunate men begged to be taken before the nearest magistrate; but Fitzgerald had them bound, and taken to his house, where they remained all night.

Early the next morning they were sent, guarded by a man of his, one Andrew Craig, and about eighteen or twenty more, all well armed, to be examined by the magistrates. Before their departure Fitzgerald gave the guard strict instructions to kill the prisoners should they attempt to escape. When they had gone about three-quarters of a mile a shot was fired, and one of the escort was laid low. But very little was wanted to rouse their wild blood, and it was at once considered that a rescue was intended. Remembering the instructions given them by Fitzgerald, they fired on their prisoners, killing Hipson, who fell into a ditch, dragging Gallagher with him, wounded with three bullets in his arm. MacDonnell, by the same volley, had both his arms broken, but he was soon afterwards despatched. Gallagher was then discovered, and they were about to kill him, only Fitzgerald ordered him to be taken to his house.

News was sent to Castlebar of what had taken place, and Fitzgerald calmly awaited the result. Fully aware of the dangerous character they had to deal with, the authorities sent a large body, both of regular troops, and volunteers, to Turlough, and these were accompanied by an immense mob of people. What happened is best related in the following graphic account:

‘Brecknock was for remaining, as with the calmness of conscious innocence, and boldly demanding a warrant against Gallagher and others. This opinion, however, did not agree with Fitzgerald’s own, who justly dreaded the fury of the volunteers and the populace, with whom MacDonnell had been so popular. Neither did it coincide with that of the Rev. Mr. Henry, the Presbyterian clergyman of Turlough, who had been latterly a resident in the house, and was now wringing his hands in wild alarm for what had occurred. This gentleman’s horse was at the door, and he strongly urged George Robert to mount, and ride for his life out of the country altogether, till the powerful intercession he could command might be made for him. In compliance with this advice, which entirely coincided with his own opinion, it is stated that he made several attempts to mount; but that, splendid horseman as he was, whether through nervous excitement, guilty terror, or the restiveness of the animal, he was unable to attain the saddle, and, in consequence, obliged to fly into the house again, as the military were announced to be approaching near. It is also generally asserted that the Rev. Mr. Ellison, who headed the soldiers, sent them on to Gurth-na-fullagh, without halting them at Turlough, where he himself stopped.

‘Were this circumstance even true, however, Fitzgerald gained but a short respite by it, as the volunteers, with many of the populace, came furiously up immediately after; and, some of them being placed about the house, the remainder entered to search and pillage it. Brecknock and Fulton were immediately captured, but, after ransacking every corner and crevice more than once without finding him, the volunteers were beginning to think that Fitzgerald must have effected his escape before their arrival, when one of them, forcing open a clothes-chest in a lower apartment, discovered him among a heap of bed-clothes in his place of concealment.

‘“What do you want, you ruffian?” he said, on finding himself detected.

‘“To dhrag ye, like a dog’s head, to a bonfire,” replied another volunteer, named Morran, a powerful man, who seized him at the same time by the breast, and drew him forth by main force.

‘A pistol was now presented at him by a third to take summary vengeance; but a comrade snapped it from his hands, asking if there was not murder enough already.

‘“What mercy did himself or his murdherers show to those every way their betthers?”

‘“Well, let them pay for that on the gallows, but let us be no murdherers; let us give him up to the law.”

‘He was, accordingly, hauled out to the front of the house, where, perceiving Mr. Ellison, he exclaimed,

‘“Ellison, will you allow me to be handled thus by such rabble?”

‘Mr. Ellison’s response to this saved him from further molestation for a time, and exertions were then made to withdraw the pillagers from the wholesale plundering they were practising within. One fellow had girded his loins with linen almost as fine as Holland—so fine that he made some hundred yards fit round his body without being much observable. Another, among other valuables, made himself master of the duellist’s diamond-buttoned coat; while a third contrived to appropriate to himself all the jewels, valued at a very high amount. In short, so entire were the spoliation and destruction that, before sunset, not a single pane of glass was left in the windows.

‘The remainder of those implicated in the murders were speedily apprehended, except Craig, who escaped for the time, but was taken soon after near Dublin.

‘We must now pause to sustain our character as an accurate chronicler to relate an act as unprecedented, as lawless, and as terrible as the most terrible of Fitzgerald’s own. He was alone, on the night of his capture, in the room assigned to him in the gaol. It was not a felon’s apartment, but was guarded on the outside by two armed soldiers, lest he should make any desperate attempt to escape. It was some hours after nightfall that Clarke, the then sub-sheriff, removed one of those sentinels to another portion of the prison, where he stated he required his presence. They had scarcely disappeared, when the remaining soldier, McBeth (according to his own account), was knocked down, and his musket taken from him, while the door was burst open, and a number of men, all armed with pistols, sword-canes, and the sentinel’s musket, commenced a furious and deadly attack on Fitzgerald, who, though totally unarmed, made a most extraordinary defence. Several shots were discharged rapidly at him, one of which lodged in his thigh, while another broke a ring on the finger of one of his hands, which he put up to change the direction of the ball.

He was then secured by John Gallagher, one of the assailants, and a powerful man, and, whilst struggling in his grip, thrust at with blades and bayonets, one of the former of which broke in the fleshy part of his arm. The latter, too, in forcing out two of his teeth, had its point broken, and was thereby prevented from passing through his throat. After having freed himself, by great exertions, from Gallagher’s grasp, he was next assaulted with musket-stock, pistol-butts, and the candlestick, which had been seized by one of the assailants, who gave the candle to a boy to hold. By one of the blows inflicted by these weapons he was prostrated under the table, and, while lying there, defending himself with unimpaired powers against other deadly-aimed blows, he exclaimed,

‘Cowardly rascals, you may now desist; you have done for me, which was, of course, your object.’

The candle had by this time been quenched in the struggling, and the gaol and streets thoroughly alarmed, so that the assailants, fearing to injure one another, and deeming that their intended victim was really dispatched, retreated from the prison, leaving Fitzgerald, though wounded, once more in security.

In consequence of this outrage, his trial was postponed for two months, and the government ordered his assailants to be prosecuted, but on trial they were acquitted. Fitzgerald himself was tried the same day (June 8, 1786), the chief witnesses against him being his own man, Andrew Craig, and Andrew Gallagher, the latter of whom deposed that when he, Hipson, and MacDonnell, were confined in Fitzgerald’s house, there was a pane broken in the window, and ‘At day he saw a number of men regularly drawn up, to the number of twenty or thirty. He saw Andrew Craig and James Foy settling them. Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Brecknock came to the flag of the hall-door; through the broken pane he heard them conversing; they spoke in French for some time, and afterwards in English, but he could not hear what they said, but the names of himself, MacDonnell, and Hipson were severally mentioned. He heard at that time nothing more than their names. Mr. Fitzgerald called over James Foy and Andrew Craig, who were settling the guard, and ordered them to move a little higher, about ten or twelve yards above the house. There was some other conversation which he did not hear. As soon as the guard were settled, Mr. Fitzgerald gave them—Foy and Craig—orders “If they saw any rescue, or colour of a rescue, be sure they shot the prisoners, and take care of them.”

‘When these orders were given, Mr. Fitzgerald said to Mr. Brecknock,

‘“Ha! we shall soon get rid of them now.”

‘Mr. Brecknock replied: “Oh, then we shall be easy indeed.”

‘After the guard was settled, Mr. Fitzgerald called back Andrew Craig, and when Craig came within ten yards of him, he, Mr. Fitzgerald, said,

‘“Andrew, be sure you kill them. Do not let one of the villains escape.”

‘Andrew answered: “Oh, never fear, please your honour.”’

At his trial he had a bitter enemy both in the judge, Yelverton, and the prosecuting counsel, Fitzgibbon. Nor could he reckon the high sheriff, Denis Browne, among his friends, so that it was scarcely possible that it should have but one issue, and the jury returned a verdict of guilty against both him and Brecknock, and the judge sentenced them to immediate execution. Fitzgerald begged for a little delay, so that he might settle his worldly affairs; it was denied him, and, at six in the evening, he walked forth to his doom. Brecknock had already suffered. Fitzgerald dreaded the scene of the scaffold and the journey thither along the high road, in a cart, and asked, as a last favour from the sheriff, to be allowed to walk and go by a by-way. It was granted, and he went to his doom preceded by the hangman, who wore a large mask. He walked very fast, and was dressed in a ragged coat of the Castletown hunt, a dirty flannel waistcoat and drawers, both of which were without buttons, brown worsted or yarn stockings, a pair of coarse shoes without buckles, and an old round hat, tied round with a pack-thread band.

When he jumped off the ladder the rope broke, although he was but a slightly-built man and a light weight, and he had to wait until another, and a stronger, one was procured. After forty minutes’ hanging his body was cut down, and was waked by the light of a few candles in a barn at Turlough; it was interred, the next morning, in the family tomb, situated in a ruined chapel adjoining a round tower, but his remains were disturbed some years afterwards at the burial of his brother in the same tomb. He was thirty-eight years of age.

His daughter had a portion of £10,000 left her by him, and she was a very gentle and interesting girl. She mostly resided with her uncle at Castletown, and was unaware, for a long time, of her father’s fate. But it so happened that, being one day alone in the library, and looking over the upper shelves, she lit upon a copy of his trial. She read it, and from that time never lifted up her head, nor smiled—she could not bear her position as the daughter of a felon, and she gradually pined away, and died at an early age.