Eighteenth Century Waifs

by John Ashton

‘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.