A duel, sketch of my brother's life, murderous Grand Jury.

Chapter X

A determined duel - I act the peasant, and am selected for the police force - Death of my sister - Sketch of my brother’s life - Dan O’Connell’s “Illustrious Kinsman ”- A murderous Grand Jury - A sad reflection.

It was just about the year 1838 that a duel - one of the last, if not the last, in this country - was fought, of which a Mr. Ireland, then at the Irish Bar, gave me the following account:-

The cause of the quarrel was some joke which a Mr. O’Hara had made at the expense of a Mr. Robert Napoleon Finn, who at once challenged him to -mortal combat. O’Hara, like a brave Galway man as he was, refused to make the slightest apology, and preliminaries were quickly settled by the seconds. It was arranged that the meeting should take place at five a.m. next morning, on the sands at the North Bull, a lonely place at the seaside, about three miles from Dublin. Ireland, who was a friend of both the principals; was invited to accompany the party as amicus curiae. Next morning, when they arrived on the ground, they took off their great coats, and laid them in a pile on the sand, and on them Ireland took his seat.

It was arranged that one of the seconds, who had had some little previous experience in affairs of honour, should give the signal for the combatants to fire. When they were in their places, twelve paces apart, this second, standing between them, proceeded to give them instructions as to how the fight was to be conducted. “The only signal will be,” he said, “the words, ‘Ready - fire.’” At the word “fire,” Finn, in his nervous excitement, raised his pistol, pointing it towards the second. “Be quiet will you?” said he. “Do you want to shoot me?” Having retired a few paces to be out of danger, he went on to say, “Neither of you is to attempt to raise your pistol till I give the word ‘ready,’ nor to attempt to shoot till I give the word ‘fire.’” At the word “fire” Finn again lost his head, pulled the trigger of his pistol, which was pointed downwards, and lodged the bullet in the calf of his own leg. O’Hara, thinking that Finn had taken a shot at him, immediately took aim at him, while Finn hopped off as fast as his wounded leg would let him, crying out, “For God’s sake, don’t fire; it was all a mistake!” But O’Hara did fire, and his bullet struck the ground close to Finn, and sent the sand flying over Ireland and the coats. At that moment four constables appeared on the ground with warrants for the arrest of the whole party, who were quickly captured, placed in the carriages in which they had come, and driven back to Dublin, Finn’s leg the while dangling out of the carriage window to keep it cool. The affair caused much amusement in Dublin, and it was said, I think, by Pat Costello, that “Finn had gone to the Bull, got cow’d, and shot the calf.”

After 1839 I was comparatively little at Abington. I had in that year become one of the pupils of Sir John MacNeill, the well-known civil engineer. About a year after I had joined his staff I had gone to a fancy ball in the south of Ireland as an Irish peasant - frieze coat, corduroy knee-breeches, yellow waistcoat grey stockings, and brogues; in my fist a good blackthorn, and on my head a wig, with the hair cropped quite close, except the national glib, or forelock, then the fashion amongst the southern peasantry. When I came back to Dublin, I went to MacNeill’s office dressed in the same way, and so perfect was the disguise that I completely took him in, as well as my fellow pupils. I told them I had come all the way from Clonmel to look for work, and couldn’t find any, and wanted to get home again, but hadn’t the means; and then and there they made a subscription to enable me to get back to my native Tipperary.

Amongst the pupils was Hemans, son of Mrs. Hemans the poetess, afterwards highly distinguished in his profession. He then lived in Dublin Castle, at the official residence of his uncle, Colonel Browne, Chief Commissioner of Police, with whom I often dined and spent my evenings. Hemans was so much pleased with the trick I had played that he insisted on my going to the Castle, disguised in the same way, to apply to his uncle for an appointment as constable in the Dublin Metropolitan Police. So I wrote a letter to Colonel Browne in my own name, saying that the bearer, Pat Ryan, was a most respectable young man, one of my father’s parishioners, who was very anxious to be a policeman, and that I should be very much obliged if he could appoint him. With this letter in my pocket, I took a covered car (there were no cabs in Dublin then), and drove to the police office in the Castle. I told the driver to wait for me, and was ushered by a policeman into a large hall, where were assembled several candidates for admission into the force, and also some constables. On entering I looked about, and said -

“Gentlemen, which of yez is Colonel Browne, if ye plaze?”

A policeman came up to me, and said, “Colonel Browne is not in the room. What is it you want?”

“Well, sir,” said I, “it’s a bit of a writin’ I have that Mr. Le Fanu gave me for the Colonel.”

“Give it to me,” said he, “and I’ll give it to him.”

“Not by no manner of means,” said I; “for Mr. Le Fanu towld me not to give it to any one, only into the Colonel’s own hands; and, begorra, I’d be afeared to give it to any one else, so I must see him myself.”

The policeman replied, “If you don’t give me the letter you won’t see him at all. Don’t be afraid; I’ll give it to him safe enough.”

“Under them circumstances, sir,” said I, “I’ll trust you with it; but, my good man, you must give it to the Colonel at once, for Mr. Le Fanu will be displeased if I’m kept waitin’.”

I was, however, kept a long time, during which I had a good deal of talk with other candidates. Amongst them was a very dapper little fellow, neatly dressed, but plainly quite too small and slight for the police. He looked rather contemptuously at my get-up, and said-”Now, do you think you have much chance of being appointed?”

“Well, my tight fellow,” said I, “if we are to judge by personal appearance and shapes, I think I have as good a chance as you, any way.”

He retired, and a friendly constable came up to me, and said, “What part of the country do you come from?”

“I’m from Tipperary,” said I.

“I thought so,” said he ; “I partly guessed I knew the frieze. And in what part of Tipperary do you live?”

“Not very far from Newport,” said I.

“Oh, then,” said he, “I suppose you know the Doodeys?”

“Of coorse I do,” said I. “Why wouldn’t I know them?” (I had never heard of them.)

“And how is old Mick Doodey?” said he.

“He’s illigant,” said I.

“And how is little Tom?” he asked.

“He’s illigant too,” said I, “only in regard of a sort of a swelling he has in his jaw.”

“He was always subject to that,” said he; then, looking at my hair, which was too long, and was coming out below the wig at the back of my head, he said, “What makes your hair so long at the back?”

“I suppose,” said I,” when my hair was shaved off last Candlemas, when I had the sickness, that the front and the back of it grew longer since than the other parts.”

“Come in with me for a minute,” said he, “and I’ll crop it off for you in the way you’ll look neat and tidy when yo&ur called up.”

“I thank you kindly,” said I, “but I’ll not mind it just now; it will be time enough to crop it if I’m appointed.”

“Well, anyhow,” said he, “hould up your head, and don’t look any way afeared or daunted like when you go up before the Colonel.”

Our conversation was then interrupted, as I was ordered upstairs to appear before the Colonel. As I entered his room I took off my hat and my brogues, and laid them with my blackthorn on the floor beside me. There was my old friend seated at his desk in all the dignity of office. After he had taken a good long look at me, he said -

“It was you, I think, who brought me this letter from Mr.* *Le Fanu?”

“It was, my lord.”

“You want to go into the police?”

“That’s my ambition, your raverence.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Why not, your worship? Sure I got a nate edication.”

“Well, read that,” said he, handing me a letter, which. I begun to read as follows: “Sir, I am anxious to become a member of the M-E *me, *T-R-O tro, P-O pa --- Ah, begorra, my lord,” said I,” that long word bates me!”

“Never mind,” he said; “it is ‘metropolitan.’ Go on.”

I got through the rest of the letter swimmingly. “Take him down now,” said he, “and have him measured, and then bring him back here.”

I ‘was taken down and put under the measuring instrument, where I kept bobbing up my head to make myself taller.

“Keep quiet, will you,” said the sergeant, putting his hand on my head. “You have a wig on?”

“Of course I have,” said I.

“Remove it at once,” said he.

“No, nor the dickens a taste,” said I. “Didn’t ye hear the Colonel tellin’ me not to dar to take off that wig be reason of a cowld I have in my head?”

So I was measured with my wig on, due allowances being, no doubt, made for it, and was marched up to the Colonel again.

“Exactly six foot, sir,” said the sergeant.

The Colonel then said to me, “You are to attend here on Friday morning next, at ten o’clock, to be examined by the doctor; and you may tell Mr. Le Fanu that if you pass the doctor I intend to put you into the B division.”

“Long may your honour live!” said I; then, handing him one of my visiting cards, I added, “Mr. Le Fanu bid me give you that.”

“Where is Mr. Le Fanu?” said he.

“Here, your raverence,” said I.

“What do you mean?” he asked me.

“Ah, then, Colonel dear, you ould villain, look at me now. Is it because I’m in these plain clothes you purtind not to know me?”

Up he jumped, put his arm in mine, and for some minutes laughed so heartily that he could not say a word, while the sergeant and the orderly stood near the door, in amazement, thinking we had both gone off our heads. As soon as he could speak he said, “Come to dine at half-past seven, and we’ll talk about the B division.”

I ran downstairs to the hall, where candidates came about me, asking, “Are you appointed?”

“Appointed, ye blackguards of the world!” said I. “Appointed, is it! I’m not only appointed, but, begorra, I’m to dine with the Colonel.”

I then ran out, got into my car, and drove off. I did not come back on Friday to the doctor; but many years afterwards I got a good appointment on the Great Southern Railway for Barrett, the constable who had been so good to me.

In the spring of 1841 a great grief befell us in the death of our only sister, the constant and loved companion of our young days. Her cleverness, her sweet temper, and, above all, her wondrous goodness, had endeared her, not to us alone, but to all who knew her. Without a particle of that cant or one of those shibboleths which spoil the conversation and mar the usefulness of so many, she influenced for good all who came in contact with her. She was the idol of the poor in our neighbourhood. There are still old people at Abington who speak of her as “the good Miss Catherine,” and tell of all the good she did.

She had been early a contributor to the *Dublin University Magazine, *in which she wrote most pleasantly, but fell into ill-health and died when she was twenty-seven. She was her father’s darling. After her death he never was the same, and did not very long survive her. We were summoned from Dublin to her death-bed. Great was her joy at seeing us and having us with her. She had feared that we would not arrive in time to see hen

It was in this same year, 1841, that my brother took his B.A. degree in the University, and soon afterwards was called to the Irish Bar. But he almost immediately became connected with the Press, and proprietor and editor of the *Warder, *a paper of note in Ireland; and shortly afterwards he purchased another paper, which he also edited. This was injurious to his future prospects, as it prevented his applying himself to a profession, for which his eloquence and ready wit fitted him, and of which his contemporaries had hoped to see him a distinguished member. Later on he purchased, and for some time edited, the Dublin *University Magazine. *It was in that periodical he published the first of Rhoda Broughton’s novels. She was first cousin to my brother’s wife, Susan Bennett, the charming daughter of the late George Bennett, Q.C., whom he married in the year 1844.

In 1845 the first and one of his best novels, “The Cock and Anchor, a Chronicle of old Dublin City,” appeared; and very soon his second, “The Fortunes of Turloch O’Brien.” They were published in Dublin, and were unsuccessful. I know not why, for they were quite equal to some of his most successful novels.

Owing to their want of success, and to the amount of time he was obliged to devote to the Press, he did not for 18 years again take up his pen as a novelist. It was not until 1863 that his next story, “The House by the Churchyard,” appeared. It was soon followed by “Uncle Silas,” the best known of his novels, and afterwards by five others.

His wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died in 1858, and from this time he entirely forsook general society, and was seldom seen except by his near relations and a few familiar friends. In the year 1871, almost immediately after the publication of his last novel, “Willing to Die,” he breathed his last in his house in Merrion Square. One who knew him long and well thus speaks of him in a short memoir which appeared, in the *University Magazine, *soon after his death: “He was a man who thought deeply, especially on religious subjects. To those who knew him he was very dear. They admired him for his learning, his sparkling wit, and pleasant conversation, and loved hint for his manly virtues, for his noble and generous qualities, his gentleness, and his loving, affectionate nature.”

All who knew my brother will feel the truth of these few simple words.

As MacNeill had an office in London, as well as one in Dublin, I had to be a good deal there during my pupilage, and for 20 years afterwards I spent a good part of every spring and early summer there - first as MacNeill’s assistant, and subsequently to attend before Parliamentary committees to give evidence on bills for railways and other works, of which I was engineer.

In those days, amongst Irishmen resident in London, was a well-known character, called amongst his friends “Lord Kilmallock,” or, more generally, “Kilmallock,” owing to his having been born in the little town of that name in the county of Limerick, whence he emigrated to the big city. His real name was O’Connell. Though no relation of the famous Dan O’Connell, he wished to be thought so, and on every occasion took up the cudgels for his “illustrious kinsman,” as he always called him. Of him the “Liberator’s” nephew, Morgan John O’Connell, the M.P. (for Kerry, I think), told me many anecdotes, amongst them the following: -

O’Connell, in one of his violent speeches, told his audience that Disraeli was a lineal descendant of the impenitent thief. Disraeli at once challenged him; but O’Connell refused to meet him, having registered a vow that he would never fight again, owing to his having killed Mr. D’Esterre in a duel in the early days of his career. Kilmallock considered it his duty at once to take up the quarrel, and wrote to Disraeli to the following effect:-

“Sir, - I understand that you have sent a challenge to my illustrious kinsman, the great Daniel O’Connell, well knowing that owing to a solemn vow he could not meet you; but I sir, as his relative, and endorsing every word he said of you, am prepared to give you that satisfaction which one gentleman owes to another, and am ready to meet you at any time and place you name - here, in France, in Germany, or even at the foot of that mount where your impenitent ancestor suffered for his crimes.”

About the same time an English member of Parliament, Mr. Chambers, brought forward every Session a motion in the House of Commons, with a view of having a Government inspection of nunneries. A friend called on Kilmallock the morning after a debate on one of these motions. He found him very busy writing.

“What are you writing about Kilmallock?” he asked.

“I’m writing a letter to the editor of the *Times *about that scoundrel Chambers. I’ll read you as much as I have written :

“To the Editor of the Times.

“Sir, I see by your paper of this date that last night in the House of** **Commons Mr. Chambers brought forward his usual motion in favour of Government inspection of Catholic nunneries. Instead of attacking those amiable, pious, virtuous ladies, the Catholic nuns, let this Mr. Chambers look nearer home; let him look at his own old card-playing, scandal-mongering, dram-drinking mother - ”

“But” interrupted his friend, “take care that that is not libellous. Are you quite sure that she is so bad?”

“What would I know about the old divil?” said Kilmallock. “I never heard of her in my life. But if he has a particle of manly feeling in his composition it will cut him to the quick.”

Morgan John O’Connell, in introducing Kilmallock to a friend, said, “Allow me to introduce to you my namesake, Mr. O’Connell.” “Your illustrious uncle,” Kilmallock said, “would have said *‘my kinsman.’” *“That is his vanity,” said Morgan John.

It was Kilmallock, I think, who told ‘me of a Grand Jury case which occurred many years before in his own county of Kerry.

At the spring assizes at Tralee the Grand Jury, who had been considering a murder case, came from their room into court to consult the judge. The foreman said, “My lord, how can we find a bill for wilful murder when the murdered man himself is giving evidence before us?” “Quite impossible, gentlemen,” said the judge. “But, my lord,” said one of the jury, “as the man was nearly killed, couldn’t we find a bill for manslaughter?” “Equally impossible, gentlemen,” said the judge.

The way in which the matter arose was this: In the winter before, a farmer had been attacked and beaten almost to death about 15 miles from Tralee. He was found on the road insensible, and carried into a cabin. The inmates did not know whether he was alive or dead, so to be right in either case they sent to Tralee for the doctor and the coroner, who both arrived in the afternoon in a storm of sleet and snow. On examining the injured man the doctor said he could not possibly recover or even live through the night. The coroner asked him whether it was absolutely certain that he would die before morning. The doctor replied, “Absolutely certain.” “In that case,” said the coroner, “I may as well hold my inquest on him, for he is dead to all intents and purposes, and what would be the use of my going back to Tralee only to come out here again to-morrow in this awful weather?” So a jury was brought together, who quickly found a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.” But in spite of doctor and coroner the man recovered, and thus was able to appear before the Grand Jury.

Another of Kilinallock’s stories was of a young Irishman in mourning, on board one of the river boats, who, as it passed Greenwich, was seen to burst into tears and cover his face with his handkerchief. On being asked what was the cause of his emotion, “Look at that building,” said he, pointing to Greenwich Hospital - “look at it! It reminds me of my dear father’s stables in Connemara!”

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