Personal sketches of his own times, Vol. 3 (of 3)

by Sir Jonah Barrington

I have ever observed that the courage of sailors is, of all other species, the most perfect. I scarce ever met a common sailor that had any sense of danger; the two most tremendous elements, fire and water, they totally disregard, and defy hurricanes and cannon, as if they were no more than Zephyrs or Catherine-wheels. They have not the same chance of getting away with soldiers from their combats:—a sailor cannot rest one second from fighting till the battle is ended; and a few years’ experience of burning, sinking, bombarding, blasting, and blowing up,—of thunder, lightning, and shipwreck,—ossifies the nerves, or rather changes them into muscles, and renders habit second nature. The sailor, therefore, acquires a constitutional contempt for danger in all its ramifications, while the soldiers’ battles are comparatively quiet, regular transactions, and their generals take themselves carefully out of the fray if they imagine they are getting the worst of it.

I have always, in fact, conceived that the noblest fighting ever invented was a sea battle, and the most intrepid animal in the creation, a British sailor. How far the new lights, in changing their natural rum into hot water, their grog into bohea tea, and their naval dialect into methodistical canting, may increase their courage (which was already ample), is for the projectors to determine. Our naval victories over the whole world proved that no change of liquids was necessary: when any thing cannot be improved, alteration is injurious; and I cannot help thinking that one sailor sending his compliments by a cabin-boy to a brother tar, requesting the “honour of his company to take a dish of tea with him after prayers,” is perfectly ridiculous. God send it may not be worse than ridiculous!—You may man your fleet with saints: but remember, it was the old sinners that gained your victories.

But to recover from one of my usual digressions: I must now advert, though in a very different point of view, to the bravery of attorneys, and exemplify the species of capriciousness I allude to in the person of Mr. T——. There was not another solicitor or practitioner in the four courts of Dublin, who showed more fortitude or downright bravery on all law proceedings. He never was known to flinch at any thing of the kind; would contest a nisi prius from morning till night without sense of danger; and even after a defeat, would sit down at his desk to draw out his bill of costs, with as much sang froid as a French general, in Napoleon’s time, would write despatches upon a drum-head in the midst of action.

Yet, with all this fortitude, he presented a singular example of the anomaly I have alluded to. Nature had given him a set of nerves as strong as chain cables, when used in mooring his clients’ concerns; and it seemed as if he had another and totally different set (of the nature of packthread) for his own purposes. His first set would have answered a sailor, his last a young lady; in plain English, he would sooner lose a good bill of costs, than run a risk of provoking any irritable country gentleman to action. In such cases he was the most mild, bland, and humble antagonist that a debtor could look for. Such (and, I repeat, most judiciously chosen) was the attorney of George Robert Fitzgerald. In person he was under the middle proportion;—and generally buttoned up in a black single-breasted coat, with what was then called a flaxen Beresford bob-wig, and every thing to match. I remember him well, and a neat, smug, sharp, half-century man he was.

This gentleman had been newly engaged by Mr. Fitzgerald to prepare numerous leases for his desperadoes; to serve ejectments on half his reputable tenantry; to do various other acts according to law, with a high hand in the county of Galway; and to go down with him to Turlow, to see that all was duly executed. The several preparations for these things were of a very expensive description, and therefore the attorney would fain have had a little advance toward stamps, office-fees, &c.: but on remotely hinting this, Mr. Fitzgerald replied (with one of those mild, engaging modes of muzzling people in which he was so great a proficient), “Surely, Mr. T——, you don’t doubt my honour and punctuality,”—which kind expression he accompanied by such a look as that wherewith the serpent is said to fascinate its prey.

This expressive glance brought down Mr. T—— to the exclamation—“O Lord, Mr. Fitzgerald, doubt your honour! O not at all, sir. I only, Mr. Fitzgerald, only—”

Here George Robert, with a bland smile, and graceful motion of the hand, told him, “that he need say no more,” and desired him to make out his bill of costs in full, to have it ready receipted, and so soon as they arrived among Mr. Fitzgerald’s tenantry at Turlow, Mr. T—— might be assured he’d pay him off entirely without taxing.

Mr. T—— was quite charmed, expressed his satisfaction, and declared his readiness to accompany his client to Turlow, after a few days’ preparation in engrossing leases, having one thousand five hundred ejectments filled up, and other preliminaries. “And be so good,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, “to include in your bill, this time, all the expenses of your former journey to Turlow (where I fear you were badly accommodated), as well as what may be due upon every other account. I intend to settle all at once.”

Mr. T—— was still more delighted:—all matters were prepared, the bills of costs reckoned, with a full acquittance and discharge for the whole (except the date) at the conclusion, to prevent delay or cavil; all the leases, ejectments, &c. were duly packed in a trunk, and the day fixed for setting out for Turlow; when Mr. Fitzgerald sent for the attorney, and told him, that if his going down was previously known, there were 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 day-break, 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 thither in a hack carriage, so that there may be no suspicion.

All this was both 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.