Curran had been in hopes that when Diver had satisfied his curiosity he would retire; and with this impression, spoke kindly to him, but was answered only by a growl. If Curran repeated his blandishments, Diver showed his long white tusks;—if he moved his foot, the dog’s hind legs were in motion. Once or twice Curran raised his hand: but Diver, considering that as a sort of challenge, rose instantly, and with a low growl looked significantly at Curran’s windpipe. Curran, therefore, stood like a model, if not much like a marble divinity. In truth, though somewhat less comely, his features were more expressive than those of the Apollo Belvidere. Had the circumstance occurred at Athens to Demosthenes, or in the days of Phidias, it is probable my friend Curran, and Diver, would have been at this moment exhibited in virgin marble at Florence or at the Vatican;—and I am quite sure the subject would have been better and more amusing than that of “the dying gladiator.”
GEORGE ROBERT FITZGERALD.
George Robert Fitzgerald and Mr. Richard Martin, M. P. for Galway—The “Prime Sergeant,” Lord Altamont’s wolf-dog—Shot by Fitzgerald—The circumstance resented by Mr. Martin—The latter insulted by his antagonist in the Dublin Theatre—Mission of Mr. Lyster to George Robert, and its disastrous consequences—A legal inquiry and strange decision—Meeting between the principals—Fitzgerald receives two shots without injury—Explanation of that enigma.
A very illustrative anecdote of the habits of former times is afforded by the celebrated rencontre between George Robert Fitzgerald of Turlow, member for Mayo, and Mr. Richard Martin of Connemara, member for Galway county, which occurred nearly half a century ago. Both were gentlemen of great public notoriety: both men of family and of fortune. But of all the contrasts that ever existed in human nature, theirs was in the superlative degree; for modern biography does not present a character more eminently vindictive and sanguinary than the one, or an individual more signalised by active humanity and benevolence than the other.
With the chief of Connemara I have now been nearly forty years in a state of uninterrupted friendship:—failings he has—“let him who is faultless throw the first stone!” The character I should give of him may be summed up in a single sentence. “Urbanity toward women; benevolence toward men; and humanity toward the brute creation.” I must observe, however, that he is one of those good fellows who would rather do any body’s business than his own; and durst look any thing in the face rather than his own situation. As to his charity, I cannot say too much; as to his politics, I cannot say too little.
His unfortunate antagonist, Mr. Fitzgerald, has long since met his miserable fate. Mr. Martin still lives; and seems to defy, from the strength of his constitution, both time and the destroyer. If ever he should become defunct, there is not a bullock, calf, goose, or hack, but ought to go into deep mourning for him.
The virulent animosity and unfinished conflicts between these celebrated personages once formed a subject of very general conversation. When the bullets of holster pistols flatten against the ribs of a gentleman, there can be no great use in fighting any more with him: it is better to break fresh ground with some more vulnerable amateur; and as “fire eating” was at the period I allude to in full taste and fashion, no person who felt a penchant for chivalry need wait a single hour for a thrust. Every gentleman then wore his sword or couteau de chasse, which there could be no trouble in drawing.
I was quite unacquainted with the true state of the quarrel between these parties, or the facts of their rencontres; and have begged my friend Martin to give me a circumstantial detail, lest I might mistake and be called a “bouncer:” he was so obliging as to comply; and I conceive that his Ms. statement is so perspicuous and fair, almost amounting to perfect impartiality—in that conversational style, too, best calculated for narrative,—that I determine to give it in nearly the same words; and when it is combined with a few facts which I learned from another friend, I venture to think that a better outline of Mayo and Galway lords, commoners, judges, country gentlemen, and fire eaters, cannot be found. As, however, there is nothing in it chivalrous in the ladies’ way—the whole being about hate with not one particle respecting love, I fear it will not be a favourite sketch with the gentler part of the creation. To make them amends, I’ll search my old trunks, and find if possible some pretty sketch that has nothing but love or marriage in it, which they shall have as well dressed and garnished as they can reasonably expect from so old a cuisinier; and now, with their kind permission, we will proceed to County Mayo.
“George Robert Fitzgerald, having a deadly hate to all the Brown family, but hating most Lord Altamont, rode up one morning from Turlow to Westport House, and asked to see the big wolf-dog called the ‘Prime Sergeant.’ When the animal appeared, he instantly shot it, and desired the servants to tell their master that ‘until the noble peer became charitable to the wandering poor whose broken meat was devoured by hungry wolf-dogs, he would not allow any such to be kept.’ He, however, left a note to say that he permitted Lady Anne, Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Charlotte Brown, each to keep one lap-dog.
“Proud of this exploit, he rode into Lord Sligo’s town of Westport, and proclaimed in the marketplace that he had just shot the Prime Sergeant dead. The whole town was alarmed; an uproar arose: but after some debate among the wisest or rather the stoutest people in the town, whether George Robert Fitzgerald ought not to be arrested if possible for this deliberate murder of Counsellor Brown; he quieted all by saying, ‘I have shot a much worthier animal, the big watch-dog.’[[16]]