commuted in the gaol of our own city, 13 were re-committed,
and of these no fewer than 10 were in due time transported.
One of the latter, Mary Lynch, was subsequently five times
committed, and at last transported; Jeremiah Twomey, _alias_
Old Lock, was subsequently six times committed, and finally
transported, while two others were twice committed. These
are a specimen of the persons whom his lordship delighted to
honour. Of the whole 57 (who were liberated between January,
1835, and April, 1839), there were, at the time of their
sentences being commuted, or themselves discharged, 34 under
sentence of transportation, and two under sentence of death.
In the county gaol, 47 prisoners experienced the benefit of
viceregal liberality. Of these 18 had been under sentence of
transportation, 11 of them for life; but how many of them it
became the duty of the government to introduce a second or
third time to the notice of the judge, or what was their
ultimate destiny, we are, unfortunately, not informed. The
recorder, we observe, passed sentence of transportation
yesterday on a fellow named Corkery, who had some years ago
been similarly sentenced by one of the judges, but for whose
release his worship was unable to account. The explanation,
however, is easy. Corkery was one of the scoundrels
liberated by Lord Normanby, and he has since been living on
the plunder of the citizens, on whom that vain and visionary
viceroy so inconsiderately let him loose."
Now I detest figures, and, therefore, I won't venture to dispute the
man's arithmetic about the "ten in due time transported," nor Corkery,
nor Mary Lynch, nor any of them.
I take the facts on his own showing, and I ground upon them the most
triumphant defence of the calumniated viceroy. What was it, I ask, but
the very prescience of the lord lieutenant we praise in the act? He
liberated a gaol full of ruffians, not to inundate the world with a
host of felons and vagabonds, but, simply, to give them a kind of
day-rule.
"Let them loose," cried my lord; "take the irons off--devil a long
they'll be free. Mark my words, that fellow will murder some one else
before long. Thank you, Mary Lynch, it is a real pleasure to me to
restore you to liberty;" and then, _sotto_, "you'll have a voyage out,
nevertheless, I see that. Open the gates--pass out, gentlemen
highwaymen. Don't be afraid, good people of Cork, these are infernal
ruffians, they'll all be back again before six months. It's no
consequence to me to see you at large, for I have the heartfelt
conviction that most of you must be hanged yet."
[Illustration]
Here is the true defence of the viceroy, here the real and
well-grounded explanation of his conduct; and I hope when Lord
Brougham attacks his noble friend--which of course he will--that the
marquis will hurl back on him, with proud triumph, this irresistible
mark of his united foresight and benevolence.
A NUT FOR "HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS."
If a fair estimate were at any moment to be taken of the time employed
in the real business of the country, and that consumed by public
characters in vindicating their conduct, recapitulating their good
intentions, and glossing over their bad acts, it would be found that
the former was to the latter as the ratio of Falstaff's bread to the
"sack."
A British House of Commons is in fact nineteen out of every twenty
hours employed in the pleasant personalities of attack and defence. It
is something that the "noble baron" said last session, or the "right
hon. baronet" didn't say in the present one, engrosses all their
attention; and the most animated debates are about certain expressions
of some "honourable and learned gentleman," who always uses his words
in a sense different from the rest of the nation.
If this satisfies the public and stuffs the newspapers, perhaps I
should not repine at it; but certainly it is very fatiguing and
tiresome to any man with a moderately good memory to preserve the
excellent traditions each ministry retains of their own virtues, and
how eloquently the opposition can hold forth upon the various good
things they would have done, had they been left quietly on the
treasury benches. Now how much better and more business-like would it
be if, instead of leaving these gentlemen to dilate and expatiate on
their own excellent qualities, some public standards were to be
established, by which at a glance the world at large could decide on
their merits and examine into their fitness for office at a future
period. Your butler and your coachman, when leaving your service, do
not present themselves to a new master with characters of their own
inditing, or if they did they would unquestionably require a very
rigid scrutiny. What would you say if a cook who professes herself a
perfect treasure of economy and excellence, warrants herself sober,
amiable, and cleanly--who, without other vouchers for her fitness than
her own, would dilate on her many virtues and accomplishments, and
demand to be taken into your service because she has higher taste for
self-panegyric than her rival. Such a thing would be preposterous in
the kitchen, but it is exactly what takes place in parliament, and
there is but one remedy for it. Let her majesty's servants, when they
leave their places, receive written characters, like those of less
exalted persons. These documents would then be on record when the
applicants sought other situations, and could be referred to with more
confidence by the nation than if given by the individuals themselves.
How easily would the high-flown sentiments of any of the "outs" be
tested by a simple comparison with his last character--how clearly
would pretension be measured by what he had done in his last place. No
long speeches, no four-hour addresses would be required at the
hustings then. Show us your character, would be the cry--why did he
leave his mistress? the question.
The petty subterfuges of party would not stand such a test as this;
all the little miserable explanations--that it was a quarrel in the
kitchen, that the cook said this and the footman said that, would go
for nothing. You were turned out, and why?--that's the bone and sinew
of the matter.
To little purpose would my Lord John remind his party that he was
going to do every thing for every body--to plunder the parsons and
pay the priests--to swamp the constitution and upset the
church--respectable people would take time to look at his papers; they
would see that he was an active little busy man, accustomed to do the
whole work of a family single-handed; that he was in many respects
attentive and industrious, but had a following of low Irish
acquaintances whom he let into the house on every occasion, and that
then nothing escaped them--they smashed the furniture, broke the
looking-glasses, and kicked up a regular row: for this he was
discharged, receiving all wages due.
And then, instead of suffering long-winded panegyrics from the member
for Tiverton, how easily would the matter be comprehended in one
line--"a good servant, lively, and intelligent, but self-sufficient,
and apt to take airs. Turned off for quarrelling with the French valet
next door, and causing a difference between the families."
Then again, how decisively the merits of a certain ex-chancellor might
be measured in reading--"hired as butler, but insisted on cleaning the
carriage, and scratched the panels; would dress the dinner, and
spoiled the soup and burned the sauce; never attended to his own
duties, but spent his time fighting with the other servants, and is in
fact a most troublesome member of a household. He is, however, both
smart and intelligent, and is allowed a small pension to wait on
company days."
Trust me, this plan, if acted on--and I feel it cannot be long
neglected--will do more to put pretension on a par with desert, than
all the adjourned debates that waste the sessions; it would save a
world of unblushing self-praise and laudation, and protect the country
from the pushing impertinence of a set of turned-off servants.
A NUT FOR THE LANDLORD AND TENANT COMMISSION.
Every one knows the story of the man who, at the penalty of losing his
head in the event of failure, promised the caliph of Bagdad that he
would teach his ass to read in the space of ten years, trusting that,
ere the time elapsed, either the caliph, or the ass, or he himself,
would die, and the compact be at an end. Now, it occurs to me that the
wise policy of this shrewd charlatan is the very essence of all
parliamentary commissions. First, there is a grievance--then comes a
debate--a very warm one occasionally, with plenty of invective and
accusation on both sides--and then they agree to make a drawn game of
it, and appoint "a Commission."
Nothing can be more plausible in appearance than such a measure; nor
could any man, short of Hume himself, object to so reasonable a
proceeding as a patient and searching inquiry into the circumstances
and bearings of any disputed question. The Commission goes to work: if
a Tory one, consisting usually of some dumb country gentlemen, who
like committee work;--if Whig, the suckling "barristers of six years'
standing:" and at it they go. The newspapers announce that they are
"sitting to examine witnesses"--a brief correspondence appears at
intervals, to show that they have a secretary and a correspondent, a
cloud then wraps the whole concern in its dark embrace, and not the
most prying curiosity is ever able afterwards to detect any one fact
concerning the commission or its labours, nor could you hear in any
society the slightest allusion ever made to their whereabouts.
It is, in fact, the polite mode of interment applied to the question
at issue--the Commissioners performing the solemn duties of
undertakers, and not even the most reckless resurrectionist being
found to disturb the remains. Before the report should issue, the
Commissioners die off, or the question has taken a new form; new
interests have changed all its bearings; a new ministry is in power,
or some more interesting matter has occupied the place it should fill
in public attention; and if the Report was even a volume of "Punch,"
it might pass undetected.
Now and then, however, a Commission will issue for the real object of
gleaning facts and conveying information; and then the duties are most
uncomfortable, and but one course is open, which is, to protract the
inquiry, like the man with the ass, and leave the result to time.
In a country like ours, conflicting interests and opposing currents
are ever changing the landmarks of party; and the commissioners feel
that with years something will happen to make their labours of little
consequence, and that they have only to prolong the period, and all is
safe.
At this moment, we have what is called a "Landlord and Tenant
Commission" sitting, or sleeping, as it may be. They have to
investigate diverse, knotty, and puzzling points, about people who
want too much for their land, and others who prefer paying nothing for
it. They are to report, in some fashion, respecting the prospects of
estated gentlemen burdened with rent-charges and mortgages, and who
won't improve properties they can scarcely live on--and a peasantry,
who must nominally pay an exaggerated rent, depending upon the chance
of shooting the agent before the gale-day, and thus obtaining easier
terms for the future.
They are to investigate the capabilities of waste lands, while
cultivated lands lie waste beside them; they must find out why
land-owners like money, and tenants hate paying it; and why a people
hold life very cheap when they possess little means to sustain it.
Now these, take them how you will, are not so easy of solution as you
may think. The landlord, for his own sake, would like a thriving,
well-to-do, contented tenantry; the tenants, for their sakes, would
like a fair-dealing, reasonable landlord, not over griping and
grabbing, but satisfied with a suitable value for his property. They
both have no common share of intelligence and acuteness--they have a
soil unquestionably fruitful, a climate propitious, little taxation,
good roads, abundant markets; and yet the one is half ruined in his
house and the other wholly beggared in his hovel--each averring that
the cause lies in the tithes, the tariff, the poor-rate, or popery,
the agent or the agitation: in fact, it is something or other which
one favours and the other opposes--some system or sect, some party or
measure, which one advocates and the other denounces; and no matter
though its influence should not, in the remotest way, enter into the
main question, there is a grievance--that's something; and as Sir
Lucius says, "it's a mighty pretty quarrel as it stands"--not the
less, that certain partizans on either side assist in the _melee_, and
the House of Commons or the Association Hall interfere with their
influence.
If, then, the Commissioners can see their way here, they are smart
fellows, and no small praise is due to them. There are difficulties
enough to puzzle long heads; and I only hope they may be equal to the
task. Meanwhile, depopulation goes on briskly--landlords are shot
every week in Tipperary; and if the report be but delayed for some few
months longer, a new element will appear in the question--for however
there may remain some pretenders to perpetuity of tenure, the
landlords will not be there to grant the leases. Let the
Commissioners, then, keep a look-out a-head--much of the embarrassment
of the inquiry will be obviated by only biding their time; and if they
but delay their report till next November, there will be but one party
to legislate for in the island.
A NUT FOR THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
If my reader will permit me to refer to my own labours, I would wish
to remind him of an old "Nut" of mine, in which I endeavoured to
demonstrate the defective morality and economy of our penal code--a
system, by which the smallest delinquent is made to cost the state
several hundreds of pounds, for an offence frequently of some few
pennies in value; and a theft of a loaf is, by the geometrical scale
of progressive aggrandisement, gradually swelled into a most expensive
process, in which policemen, station-houses, inspectors, magistrates,
sessions, assizes, judges, crown prosecutors, gaols, turnkeys, and
transports, all figure; and the nation is left to pay the cost of this
terrible array, for the punishment of a crime the prevention of which
might, perhaps, have been effected for two-pence.
I do not now intend to go over the beaten track of this argument; my
intention is simply to refer to it, and adduce another instance of
this strange and short-sighted policy, which prefers waiting to
acting, and despises cheap, though timely interference with evil, and
indulges in the somewhat late, but more expensive process of
reparation.
And to begin. Imagine--unhappily you need exercise no great stretch of
the faculty, the papers teem with too many instances--imagine a poor,
woe-begone, miserable creature, destitute and friendless, without a
home, without a meal; his tattered clothing displaying through every
rent the shrunken form and wasted limbs to which hunger and want have
reduced him. See him as night falls, plodding onwards through the
crowded thoroughfares of the great city; his lack-lustre eye glazed
and filmy; his pale face and blue lip actually corpse-like in their
ghastliness. He gazes at the passers-by with the vacant stare of
idiotcy. Starvation has sapped the very intellect, and he is like one
in some frightful vision; a vague desire for rest--a dreamy belief
that death will release him--lives in the place of hope; and as he
leans over the battlements of the tall bridge, the plash of the dark
river murmurs softly to his ear. His despair has conjured up a
thousand strange and flitting fancies, and voices seem to call to him
from the dull stream, and invite him to lie down and be at peace.
Meanwhile the crowd passes on. Men in all the worldliness of their
hopes and fears, their wishes, their expectations, and their dreads,
pour by. None regard _him_, who at that moment stands on the very
brink of an eternity, whither his thoughts have gone before him. As he
gazes, his eye is attracted by the star-like spangle of lights in the
water. It is the reflection of those in the house of the Humane
Society; and he suddenly remembers that there is such an institution;
and he bethinks him, as well as his poor brain will let him, that some
benevolent people have called this association by this pleasing title,
and the very word is a balm to his broken heart.
"Humane Society!" Muttering the words, he staggers onwards; a feeling
too faint for hope still survives; and he bends his wearied steps
towards the building. It is indeed a goodly edifice; Portland stone
and granite, massive columns and a portico, are all there; and
Humanity herself is emblematised in the figures which decorate the
pedestal. The man of misery stands without and looks up at this
stately pile; the dying embers emit one spark, and for a second, hope
brightens into a brief flicker. He enters the spacious hall, on one
side of which a marble group is seen representing the "good
Samaritan;" the appeal comes home to his heart, and he could cry, but
hunger has dried up his tears.
I will not follow him in his weary pilgrimage among the liveried
menials of the institution, nor shall I harass my reader by the cold
sarcasm of those who tell him that he has mistaken the object of the
association: that their care is not with life, but death; that the
breathing man, alive, but on the verge of dissolution, has no interest
for _them_; for _their_ humanity waits patiently for his corpse. It
is true, one pennyworth of bread--a meal your dog would turn
from--would rescue this man from death and self-murder. But what of
that--how could such humble, unobtrusive charity inhabit a palace? How
could it pretend to porters and waiting-men, to scores of officials,
visiting doctors, and physicians in ordinary? By what trickery could a
royal patron be brought to head the list of benefactors to a scheme so
unassuming? Where would be the stomach-pumps and the galvanic
batteries for science?--where the newspaper reports of a miraculous
recovery?--where the magazine records of suspended animation?--or
where that pride and pomp and circumstance of enlightened humanity
which calls in chemistry to aid charity, and makes electricity the
test of benevolence? No, no; the hungry man might be fed, and go his
way unseen, untrumpeted--there would be no need of this specious
plausibility of humanity which proclaims aloud--Go and drown yourself;
stand self-accused and condemned before your Creator; and if there be
but a spark of vitality yet remaining, we'll call you back to life
again--a starving suicide! No effort shall be spared--messengers shall
fly in every direction for assistance--the most distinguished
physician--processes the most costly--experiments the most
difficult--care unremitting--zeal untiring, are all yours. Cordials,
the cost of which had sustained you in life for weeks long, are now
poured down your unconscious throat--the limbs that knew no other bed
than straw, are wrapped in heated blankets--the hand stretched out in
vain for alms, is now rubbed by the jewelled fingers of a west-end
physician.
Men, men, is this charity?--is the fellow-creature nought?--is the
corpse everything?--is a penny too much to sustain life?--is a hundred
pounds too little to restore it? Away with your stuccoed walls and
pillared corridors--support the starving, and you will need but little
science to reanimate the suicide.
THE END.
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS
End of Project Gutenberg's Nuts and Nutcrackers, by Charles James Lever