the Corn Exchange, be at the head of a gaming-table; and how well
would the Liberator conduct a business whose motto is so admirably
expressed by the phrase, "Heads, _I_ win; tails, _you_ lose." Besides,
after all, nothing could form so efficient a bond of union between the
two contending parties in the country as some little mutual territory
of wickedness, where both might forget their virtues and their
grievances together. Here you'd soon have the violent party-man of
either side, oblivious of everything but his chance of gain; and what
an energy would it give to the great Daniel to think that, while
filling his pockets, he was also spoiling the Egyptians! Instead,
therefore, of making the poor man contribute his penny, and the
ragged man two-pence, you'd have the Rent supplied without the trouble
of collection; and all from the affluent and the easy, or at least the
idle, portion of the community.
This is the second time I have thrown out a suggestion--and all for
nothing, remember--on the subject of afinance; and little reflection
will show that both my schemes are undeniable in their benefits. Here
you have one of the most expensive pleasures a poor country has ever
ventured to afford itself--a hired agitator, pensioned, without any
burden on the productive industry of the land; and he himself, so far
from having anything to complain of, will find that his revenue is
more than quadrupled.
Look at the question, besides, in another point of view, and see what
possible advantages may arise from it. Nothing is so admirable an
antidote to all political excitement as gambling: where it flourishes,
men become so inextricably involved in its fascinations and
attractions that they forget everything else. Now, was ever a country
so urgently in want of a little repose as ours? and would it not be
well to purchase it, and pension off our great disturbers, at any
price whatever? Cards are better than carding any day; short whist is
an admirable substitute for insurrection; and the rattle of a dice-box
is surely as pleasant music as the ruffian shout for repeal.
RICH AND POOR--POUR ET CONTRE.
[Illustration]
If I was a king upon a throne this minute, an' I wanted to have a
smoke for myself by the fireside--why, if I was to do my best, what
could I smoke but one pen'orth of tobacco, in the night, after
all?--but can't I have that just as asy?
"If I was to have a bed with down feathers, what could I do but sleep
there?--and sure I can do that in the settle-bed above."
Such is the very just and philosophical reflection of one of Griffin's
most amusing characters, in his inimitable story of "The
Collegians"--a reflection that naturally sets us a thinking, that if
riches and wealth cannot really increase a man's capacity for
enjoyment with the enjoyments themselves, their pursuit is, after all,
but a poor and barren object of even worldly happiness.
As it is perfectly evident that, so far as mere sensual gratifications
are concerned, the peer and the peasant stand pretty much on a level,
let us inquire for a moment in what the great superiority consists
which exalts and elevates one above the other? Now, without entering
upon that wild field for speculation that power (and what power equals
that conferred by wealth?) confers, and the train of ennobling
sentiment suggested by extended views of philanthropy and
benevolence--for, in this respect, it is perfectly possible the poor
man has as amiable a thrill at his heart in sharing his potato with a
wandering beggar, as the rich one has in contributing his thousand
pounds' donation to some great national charity--let us turn rather to
the consideration of those more tangible differences that leave their
impress upon character, and mould men's minds into a fashion so
perfectly and thoroughly distinct.
To our thinking, then, the great superiority wealth confers lies in
the seclusion the rich man lives in from all the grosser agency of
every-day life--its make-shifts, its contrivances, its continued
warfare of petty provision and continual care, its unceasing effort to
seem what it is not, and to appear to the world in a garb, and after a
manner, to which it has no just pretension. The rich man knows nothing
of all this: life, to him, rolls on in measured tread; and the world,
albeit the changes of season and politics may affect him, has nothing
to call forth any unusual effort of his temper or his intellect; his
life, like his drawing-room, is arranged for him; he never sees it
otherwise than in trim order; with an internal consciousness that
people must be engaged in providing for his comforts at seasons when
he is in bed or asleep, or otherwise occupied, he gives himself no
farther trouble about them; and, in the monotony of his pleasures,
attains to a tranquillity of mind the most enviable and most happy.
Hence that perfect composure so conspicuous in the higher ranks, among
whom wealth is so generally diffused--hence that delightful simplicity
of manner, so captivating from its total absence of pretension and
affectation--hence that unbroken serenity that no chances or
disappointments would seem to interfere with; the knowledge that he is
of far too much consequence to be neglected or forgotten, supports him
on every occasion, and teaches that, when anything happens to his
inconvenience or discomfort, that it could not but be unavoidable.
Not so the poor man: his poverty is a shoe that pinches every hour of
the twenty-four; he may bear up from habit, from philosophy, against
his restricted means of enjoyment; he may accustom himself to limited
and narrow bounds of pleasure; he may teach himself that, when wetting
his lips with the cup of happiness, that he is not to drink to his
liking of it: but what he cannot acquire is that total absence of all
forethought for the minor cares of life, its provisions for the
future, its changes and contingencies--hence he does not possess that
easy and tranquil temperament so captivating to all within its
influence; he has none of the careless _abandon_ of happiness, because
even when happy he feels how short-lived must be his pleasure, and
what a price he must pay for it. The thought of the future poisons the
present, just as the dark cloud that gathers round the mountain-top
makes the sunlight upon the plain seem cold and sickly.
All the poor man's pleasures have taken such time and care in their
preparation that they have lost their freshness ere they are tasted.
The cook has sipped so frequently at the pottage, he will not eat of
it when at table. The poor man sees life "_en papillotes_" before he
sees it "dressed." The rich man sees it only in the resplendent blaze
of its beauty, glowing with all the attraction that art can lend it,
and wearing smiles put on for his own enjoyment. But if such be the
case, and if the rich man, from the very circumstance of his position,
imbibe habits and acquire a temperament possessing such charm and
fascination, does he surrender nothing for all this? Alas! and alas!
how many of the charities of life lie buried in the still waters of
his apathetic nature! How many of the warm feelings of his heart are
chilled for ever, for want of ground for their exercise! How can he
sympathise who has never suffered? how can he console who has never
grieved? There is nothing healthy in the placid mirror of that glassy
lake; uncurled by a breeze, unruffled by a breath of passion, it wants
the wholesome agitation of the breaking wave--the health-giving,
bracing power of the conflicting element that stirs the heart within,
and nerves it for a noble effort.
All that he has of good within him is cramped by _convenance_ and
fashion; for he who never feared the chance of fortune, trembles, with
a coward's dread, before the sneer of the world. The poor man,
however, only appeals to this test on a very different score. The
"world" may prescribe to him the fashion of his hat, or the colour of
his coat--it may dictate the _locale_ of his residence, and the style
of his household, and he may, so far as in him lies, comply with a
tyranny so absurd; but with the free sentiments of his nature--his
honest pride, his feeling sympathy--with the open current of his warm
affection he suffers no interference: of this no man shall be the
arbiter. If, then, the shoals and quicksands of the world deprive him
of that tranquil guise and placid look--the enviable gift of richer
men--he has, in requital, the unrestricted use of those greater gifts
that God has given him, untrammelled by man's opinion, uncurbed by
the control of "the world."
Each supports a tyranny after his own kind:--
The rich man--above the dictates of fashion--subjects the thoughts of
his mind and the meditations of his heart to the world's rule.
The poor man--below it--keeps these for his prerogative, and has no
slavery save in form.
Happy the man who, amid all the seductions of wealth, and all the
blandishments of fortune, can keep his heart and mind in the healthy
exercise of its warm affections and its generous impulses. But still
happier he, whose wealth, the native purity of his heart--can limit
his desires to his means, and untrammelled by ambition, undeterred by
fear of failure, treads the lowly but peaceful path in life, neither
aspiring to be great, nor fearing to be humble.
[Illustration]
A NUT FOR ST. PATRICK'S NIGHT.
There is no cant offends me more than the oft-repeated criticisms on
the changed condition of Ireland. How very much worse or how very much
better we have become since this ministry, or that measure--what a
deplorable falling off!--what a gratifying prospect! how poor! how
prosperous! &c. &c. Now, we are exactly what and where we used to be:
not a whit wiser nor better, poorer nor prouder. The union, the relief
bill, the reform and corporation acts, have passed over us, like the
summer breeze upon the calm water of a lake, ruffling the surface for
a moment, but leaving all still and stagnant as before. Making new
laws for the use of a people who would not obey the old ones, is much
like the policy of altering the collar or the cuffs of a coat for a
savage, who insists all the while on going naked. However, it amuses
the gentlemen of St. Stephen's; and, I'm sure I'm not the man to
quarrel with innocent pleasures.
To me, looking back, as my Lord Brougham would say, from the period of
a long life, I cannot perceive even the slightest difference in the
appearance of the land, or the looks of its inhabitants. Dublin is the
same dirty, ill-cared-for, broken-windowed, tumble-down concern it
used to be--the country the same untilled, weed-grown, unfenced thing
I remember it fifty years ago--the society pretty much the same
mixture of shrewd lawyers, suave doctors, raw subalterns, and fat,
old, greasy country gentlemen, waiting in town for remittances to
carry them on to Cheltenham--that paradise of Paddies, and elysium of
Galway _belles_. Our table-talk the old story, of who was killed last
in Tipperary or Limerick, with the accustomed seasoning of the
oft-repeated alibi that figures at every assizes, and is successful
with every jury. These pleasant topics, tinted with the party colour
of the speaker's politics, form the staple of conversation; and,
"barring the wit," we are pretty much what our fathers were some half
century earlier. Father Mathew, to be sure, has innovated somewhat on
our ancient prejudices; but I find that what are called "the upper
classes" are far too cultivated and too well-informed to follow a
priest. A few weeks ago, I had a striking illustration of this fact
brought before me, which I am disposed to quote the more willingly as
it also serves to display the admirable constancy with which we adhere
to our old and time-honoured habits. The morning of St. Patrick's day
was celebrated in Dublin by an immense procession of teetotallers,
who, with white banners, and whiter cheeks, paraded the city,
evidencing in their cleanly but care-worn countenances, the benefits
of temperance. On the same evening a gentleman--so speak the morning
papers--got immoderately drunk at the ball in the Castle, and was
carried out in a state of insensibility. Now, it is not for the sake
of contrast I have mentioned this fact--my present speculation has
another and very different object, and is simply this:--How comes it,
that since time out of mind the same event has recurred on the
anniversary of St. Patrick at the Irish court? When I was a boy I
remember well "the gentleman who became so awfully drunk," &c. Every
administration, from the Duke of Rutland downwards, has had its
drunken gentleman on "St. Patrick's night." Where do they keep him all
the year long?--what do they do with him?--are questions I continually
am asking myself. Under what name and designation does he figure in
the pension list? for of course I am not silly enough to suppose that
a well-ordered government would depend on chance for functionaries
like these. One might as well suppose they would calculate on some one
improvising Sir William Betham, or extemporaneously performing "God
save the Queen," on the state trumpet, in lieu of that amiable
individual who distends his loyal cheeks on our great anniversaries.
No, no. I am well aware he is a member of the household, or at least
in the pay of the government. When the pope converts his Jew on Holy
Thursday, the Catholic church have had ample time for preparation: the
cardinals are on the look-out for weeks before, to catch one for his
holiness--a good respectable hirsute Israelite, with a strong Judas
expression to magnify the miracle. But then the Jew is passive in the
affair, and has only to be converted patiently--whereas "the
gentleman" has an active duty to discharge; he must imbibe sherry,
iced punch, and champagne, at such a rate that he can be able to shock
the company, before the rooms thin, with his intemperate excess.
Besides, to give the devil--the pope, I mean--his Jew, they snare a
fresh one every Easter. Now, I am fully persuaded that, at our Irish
court, the same gentleman has performed the part for upwards of fifty
years.
At the ancient banquets it was always looked upon as a triumph of
Amphitryonism when a guest or two died the day after of indigestion,
from over eating. Now, is it not possible that our classic origin may
have imparted to us the trait I am speaking of, and that "the
gentleman" is retained as typical of our exceeding hilarity and
consummate conviviality--an evidence to the "great unasked" that the
festivities within doors are conducted on a scale of boundless
profusion and extravagance--that the fountains from which honour
flows, run also with champagne, and that punch and the peerage are to
be seen bubbling from the same source.
It is a sad thing to think that the gifted man, who has served his
country so faithfully in this capacity for so long a period, must now
be stricken in years. Time and rum must be telling upon him; and yet,
what should we do were we to lose him?
In the chapel of Maria Zell, in Styria, there is a portly figure of
St. Somebody, with more consonants than I find it prudent to venture
on from mere memory; the priest is rolling his eyes very benignly on
the frequenters of the chapel, as they pass by the shrine he resides
in. The story goes, that when the saint ceases winking, some great
calamity will occur to the commune and its inhabitants. Now, the last
time I saw him, he was in great vigour, ogled away with his accustomed
energy, and even, I thought--perhaps it was a suspicion on my
part--had actually strained his eyeballs into something like a squint,
from actual eagerness to oblige his votaries--a circumstance happily
of the less moment in our days, as a gifted countryman of ours could
have remedied the defect in no time. But to return; my theory is, that
when we lose our tipsy friend it's all up with us; "Birnam wood will
then have come to Dunsinane;" and what misfortunes may befal us, Sir
Harcourt Lees may foresee, but I confess myself totally unable to
predicate.
Were I the viceroy, I'd not sleep another night in the island. I'd
pack up the regalia, send for Anthony Blake to take charge of the
country, and start for Liverpool in the mail-packet.
Happily, however, such an event may be still distant; and although the
Austrians have but one Metternich, we may find a successor to our
"Knight of St. Patrick."
A NUT FOR "GENTLEMAN JOCKS."
"The Honourable Fitzroy Shuffleton," I quote _The Morning Post_, "who
rode Bees-wing, came in a winner amid deafening cheers. Never was a
race better contested; and although, when passing the distance-post,
the Langar colt seemed to have the best of it, yet such was Mr.
Shuffleton's tact and jockeyship, that he shot a-head in advance of
his adversary, and came in first." I omit the passages descriptive of
the peculiar cleverness displayed by this gifted gentleman. I omit
also that glorious outbreak of newspaper eloquence, in which the
delight of his friends is expressed--the tears of joy from his
sisters--the cambric handkerchiefs that floated in the air--the
innumerable and reiterated cries of "Well done!--he's a trump!--the
right sort!" &c. &c., so profusely employed by the crowd, because I am
fully satisfied with what general approbation such proofs of ability
are witnessed.
[Illustration: Gentlemen Jocks.]
We are a great nation, and nowhere is our greatness more conspicuous
than in the education of our youth. The young Frenchman seems to
fulfil his destiny, when, having drawn on a pair of the most
tight-fitting kid gloves, of that precise shade of colour so approved
of by Madame Laffarge, he saunters forth on the Boulevard de Gand, or
lounges in the _coulisse_ of the opera.
The German, whose contempt not only extends to glove-leather, but
clean hands, betakes himself early in life to the way he should go,
and from which, to do him justice, he never shows any inclination to
depart. A meerschaum some three feet long, and a tobacco bag like a
school-boy's satchel, supply his wants in life. The dreamy visions of
the unreal woes, and the still more unreal greatness of his country,
form the pabulum for his thoughts; and he has no other ambition, for
some half dozen years of his life, than to boast his utter
indifference to kings and clean water.
Now, we manage matters somewhat better. Our young men, from the very
outset of their career, are admirable jockeys; and if by any fatality,
like the dreadful revolution of France, our nobles should be compelled
to emigrate from their native land, instead of teaching mathematics
and music, the small sword and quadrilles, we shall have the
satisfaction of knowing that we supply stable-boys to the whole of
Europe.
Whatever other people may say or think, I put a great value on this
equestrian taste. I speak not here of the manly nature of horse
exercise--of the noble and vigorous pursuits of the hunting field. No;
I direct my observations solely to the heroes of Ascot and Epsom--of
Doncaster and Goodwood. I only speak of those whose pleasure it is to
read no book save the Racing Calendar, and frequent no lounge but
Tattersall's; who esteem the stripes of a racing-jacket more
honourable than the ribbon of the Bath, and look to a well-timed
"hustle" or "a shake" as the climax of human ability. These are fine
fellows, and I prize them. But if it be not only praiseworthy, but
pleasant, to ride for the Duke's cup at Goodwood, or the Corinthian's
at the Curragh, why not extend the sphere of the utility, and become
as amiable in private as they are conspicuous in public life?
We have seen them in silk jackets of various hues, with leathers and
tops of most accurate fitting, turn out amid the pelting of a most
pitiless storm, to ride some three miles of spongy turf, at the hazard
of their necks, and the almost certainty of a rheumatic fever; and
why, donning the same or some similar costume, will they not perform
the office of postillion, when their fathers, or mayhap, some
venerated aunt, is returning by the north road to an antiquated
mansion in Yorkshire? The pace, to be sure, is not so fast--but it
compensates in safety what it loses in speed--the assemblage around is
not so numerous, or the excitement so great; but filial tenderness is
a nobler motive than the acclamations of a mob. In fact, the parallel
presents all the advantages on one side: and the jockey is as inferior
to the postillion as the fitful glare of an _ignis-fatuus_ is to the
steady brilliancy of a gas-lamp.
An Englishman has a natural pride in the navy of his country--our
wooden walls are a glorious boast; but, perhaps, after all, there is
nothing more captivating in the whole detail of the service, than the
fact that even the highest and the noblest in the land has no royal
road to its promotion, but, beginning at the very humblest step, he
must work his way through every grade and every rank, like his
comrades around him. Many there are now living who remember Prince
William, as he was called--late William the Fourth, of glorious
memory--sitting in the stern seats of a gig, his worn jacket and
weather-beaten hat attesting that even the son of a king had no
immunity from the hardships of the sea. This is a proud thought for
Englishmen, and well suited to gratify their inherent loyalty and
their sturdy independence. Now, might we not advantageously extend the
influence of such examples, by the suggestion I have thrown out above?
If a foreigner be now struck by hearing, as he walks through the
dockyard at Plymouth, that the little middy who touches his hat with
such obsequious politeness, is the Marquis of ----, or the Earl of
----, with some fifty thousand per annum, how much more astonished
will he be on learning that he owes the rapidity with which he
traversed the last stage to his having been driven by Lord Wilton--or
that the lengthy proportions, so dexterously gathered up in the
saddle, belong to an ex-ambassador from St. Petersburgh. How surprised
would he feel, too, that instead of the low habits and coarse tastes
he would look for in that condition in life, he would now see elegant
and accomplished gentlemen, sipping a glass of curacoa at the end of a
stage; or, mayhap, offering a pinch of snuff from a box worth five
hundred guineas. What a fascinating conception would he form of our
country from such examples as this! and how insensibly would not only
the polished taste and the high-bred depravity of the better classes
be disseminated through the country; but, by an admirable reciprocity,
the coarsest vices of the lowest would be introduced among the highest
in the land. The race-course has done much for this, but the road
would do far more. Slang is now but the language of the _elite_--it
would then become the vulgar tongue; and, in fact, there is no
predicting the amount of national benefit likely to arise from an
amalgamation of all ranks in society, where the bond of union is so
honourable in its nature. Cultivate, then, ye youth of England--ye
scions of the Tudors and the Plantagenets--with all the blood of all
the Howards in your veins--cultivate the race-course--study the
stable--read the Racing Calendar. What are the precepts of Bacon or
the learning of Boyle compared to the pedigree of Grey Momus, or the
reason that Tramp "is wrong?" "A dark horse" is a far more interesting
subject of inquiry than an eclipse of the moon, and a judge of pace a
much more exalted individual than a judge of assize.
A NUT FOR YOUNGER SONS.
[Illustration]