I was surprised one winter’s evening by receiving a written challenge, in the nature of an invitation, from Mr. Daly, to fight him early the ensuing morning. I never had spoken a word to him in my life, and scarcely of him, and no possible cause of quarrel that I could guess existed between us: however, it being then a decided opinion that a first overture of that nature could never be declined, I accepted the invitation without any inquiry; writing, in reply, that as to place, I chose the field of Donnybrook fair as the fittest spot for all sorts of encounters. I had then to look out for a second, and resorted to a person with whom I was very intimate, and who, as he was a curious character, may be worth noticing. He was brother to the unfortunate Sir Edward Crosby, Bart., who was murdered by a court-martial at Carlow, May, 1798. My friend was afterward called “Balloon Crosby,” being the first aeronaut who constructed an Hibernian balloon, and ventured to take a journey into the sky from Ireland (from Ranelagh Gardens).7
Crosby was of immense stature, being near six feet three inches high: he had a comely-looking, fat, ruddy face, and was, beyond comparison, the most ingenious mechanic I ever knew. He had a smattering of all sciences, and there was scarcely an art or trade of which he had not some practical knowledge. His chambers at college were like a general workshop for all kinds of artisans: he was very good tempered, exceedingly strong, and as brave as a lion – but as dogged as a mule: nothing could change a resolution of his when once made; and nothing could check or resist his perseverance to carry it into execution. He highly approved of my promptness in accepting Daly’s invitation; but I told him that I unluckily had no pistols, and did not know where to procure any against the next morning. This puzzled him: but on recollection, he said he had no complete pistols neither; but he had some old locks, barrels, and stocks, which, as they did not originally belong to each other, he should find it very difficult to make any thing of: nevertheless, he would fall to work directly. He kept me up till late at night in his chambers to help him in filing the old locks and barrels, and endeavouring to patch up two or three of them so as to go off and answer that individual job. Various trials were made: much filing, drilling, and scouring were necessary. However, by two o’clock in the morning we had completed three entire pistols, which, though certainly of various lengths and of the most ludicrous workmanship, struck their fire right well, and that was all we wanted of them, —symmetry (as he remarked) being of no great value upon these occasions.
It was before seven o’clock on the 20th of March, with a cold wind and a sleety atmosphere, that we set out on foot for the field of Donnybrook fair, after having taken some good chocolate and a plentiful draught of cherry-brandy, to keep the cold wind out. On arriving, we saw my antagonist and his friend (Jack Patterson, nephew to the chief justice) already on the ground. I shall never forget Daly’s figure. He was a very fine-looking young fellow, but with such a squint that it was totally impossible to say what he looked at, except his nose, of which he never lost sight. His dress (they had come in a coach) made me ashamed of my own: he wore a pea-green coat; a large tucker with a diamond brooch stuck in it; a three-cocked hat with a gold button-loop and tassels, and silk stockings; and a couteau-de-chasse hung gracefully dangling from his thigh. In fact, he looked as if already standing in a state of triumph, after having vanquished and trampled on his antagonist. I did not half like his steady position, showy surface, and mysterious squint; and I certainly would rather have exchanged two shots with his slovenly friend, Jack Patterson, than one with so magnificent and overbearing an adversary.
My friend Crosby, without any sort of salutation or prologue, immediately cried out “Ground, gentlemen! ground – ground! come, d – n measurement, to work!” and placing me on his selected spot, whispered into my ear “Medio tutissimus ibis: never look at the head or the heels: hip the maccaroni! the hip for ever, my boy! hip, hip!” – when my antagonist’s second, advancing and accosting mine, said, Mr. Daly could not think of going any further with the business; that he found it was totally a mistake on his part, originating through misrepresentation, and that he begged to say he was extremely sorry for having given Mr. Barrington and his friend the trouble of coming out, hoping they would excuse it and shake hands with him. To this arrangement I certainly had no sort of objection; but Crosby, without hesitation, said, “We cannot do that yet sir: I’ll show you we can’t: (taking a little manuscript book out of his breeches pocket,) there’s the rules! – look at that, sir,” continued he, “see No. 7.: – ‘No apology can be received after the parties meet, without a fire.’ You see, there’s the rule,” pursued Crosby, with infinite self-satisfaction; “and a young man on his first blood cannot break rule, particularly with a gentleman so used to the sport as Mr. Daly. Come, gentlemen, proceed! proceed!”
Daly appeared much displeased, but took his ground, without speaking a word, about nine paces from me. He presented his pistol instantly, but gave me most gallantly a full front.
It being, as Crosby said, my first blood, I lost no time, but let fly without a single second of delay, and without taking aim: Daly staggered back two or three steps; put his hand to his breast; cried, “I’m hit, sir!” and did not fire. Crosby gave me a slap on the back which staggered me, and a squeeze of the hand which nearly crushed my fingers. We got round him: his waistcoat was opened, and a black spot, about the size of a crown-piece, with a little blood, appeared directly on his breast-bone. I was greatly shocked: fortunately, however, the ball had not penetrated; but his brooch had been broken, and a piece of the setting was sticking fast in the bone. Crosby stamped, cursed the damp powder or under-loading, and calmly pulled out the brooch: Daly said not a word; put his cambric handkerchief doubled to his breast, and bowed. I returned the salute, extremely glad to get out of the scrape, and so we parted without conversation or ceremony; save that when I expressed my wish to know the cause of his challenging me, Daly replied that he would now give no such explanation, and his friend then produced his book of rules, quoting No. 8.: – “If a party challenged accept the challenge without asking the reason of it, the challenger is never bound to divulge it afterward.”
My friend Crosby, as I have mentioned, subsequently attempted to go off from Dublin to England in a balloon of his own making, and dropped between Dublin and Holyhead into the sea, but was saved. The poor fellow some time after went abroad, and was supposed to have died far too early for friendship, – which he was eminently capable of exciting. I never saw two persons in face and figure more alike than Crosby and my friend Daniel O’Connell: but Crosby was the taller by two inches, and it was not so easy to discover that he was an Irishman.8
DUELLING EXTRAORDINARY
Frequency of election-duels – Ludicrous affair between Frank Skelton and an exciseman – Frank shoots the exciseman and runs away – His curious reasons – Sir J. Bourke’s quadrille duel, with five hits – Mr. H. D. G * * * y’s remarkable meeting with Counsellor O’Maher – O’Maher hit – Civil proposition of G * * *’s second – G * * *’s gallant letter to the author on his election for Maryborough – Honourable Barry Yelverton challenged by nine officers at once – His elucidation of the Fire-eaters’ Resolutions – Lord Kilkenny’s memorable duels and law-suits – His Lordship is shot by Mr. Ball, an attorney – The heir to his title (the Hon. Somerset Butler) challenges Counsellor Burrowes – The latter hit, but his life saved by some gingerbread nuts – Lord Kilkenny’s duel with Counsellor Byrne – The counsellor wounded – Counsellor Guinness escapes a rencontre – Sketch of Counsellor M‘Nally – His duel with the author – His three friends: all afterward hanged – M‘Nally wounded – Bon-mot