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When Solomon said there was nothing new under the sun, he never knew
Lord Normanby. That's a fact, and now to show cause.
No attribute of regal, and consequently it may be inferred of vice-regal
personages, have met such universal praise from the world, as the
wondrous tact they would seem to possess, regarding the most suitable
modes of flattering the pride and gratifying the passions of those they
govern.
It happens not unfrequently, that they leave this blessed privilege
unused, and give themselves slight pains in its exercise; but should
the time come when its exhibition may be deemed fit or necessary, their
instinctive appreciation is said never to fail them, and they invariably
hit off the great trait of a people at once.
Perhaps it may be the elevated standard on which they are placed, gives
them this wondrous _coup-d'oeil_, and enables them to take wider views
than mortals less eminently situated; perhaps it is some old leaven of
privileges derivable from right divine. But no matter, the thing is so.
Napoleon well knew the temper of Frenchmen in his day, and how certain
short words, emblematic of their country's greatness and glory, could
fascinate their minds and bend them to his purpose. In Russia, the czar
is the head of the church, as of the state, and a mere word from him to
one of his people is a treasure above all price. In Holland, a popular
monarch taps some forty puncheons of schnapps, and makes the people
drunk. In Belgium, he gets up a high mass, and a procession of virgins.
In the States, a rabid diatribe against England, and a spice of Lynch
Law, are clap-trap. But every land has its own peculiar leaning--to be
gratified by some one concession or compliment in preference to every
other.
Now, when Lord Normanby came to Ireland, he must have been somewhat
puzzled by the very multiplicity of these expectations. It was a regular
“embarras de richesses.” There was so much to give, and he so willing to
give it!
First, there was discouragement to be dealt out against Protestants--an
easy and a pleasant path; then the priests were to be brought into
fashion--a somewhat harder task; country gentlemen were to be snubbed
and affronted; petty attorneys were to be petted and promoted; all
claimants with an “O” to their names were to have something--it looked
national; men of position and true influence were to be pulled down
and degraded, and so on. In fact, there was a good two years of smart
practice in the rupture of all the ties of society, and in the overthrow
of whatever was respectable in the land, before he need cry halt.
Away he went then, cheered by the sweet voices of the mob he loved, and
quick work he made of it. I need not stop to say, how pleasant Dublin
became when deserted of all who could afford to quit it; nor how
peaceful were the streets which no one traversed--_ubi solitudinem
faciunt pacem appellant_. The people, like Oliver, “asked for more;”
ungrateful people! not content with Father Glynn at the viceroy's table,
and the Bishop of “Mesopotamia” in the council, they cried, like the
horseleech's daughters, “Give! give!”
“What would they have, the spalpeens?” said Pierce Mahony; “sure ain't
we destroying the place entirely, and nobody will be able to live here
after us.”
“What do they want?” quoth Anthony Blake; “can't they have patience?
Isn't the church trembling, and property not worth two years' purchase?”
“Upon my life!” whispered Lord Morpeth, “I can't comprehend them. I fear
we have been only but too good-natured!--don't you think so?”
And so they pondered over their difficulties, but never a man among them
could suggest a remedy for their new demand, nor make out a concession
which had not been already made.
“Did you butter Dan?” said Anthony.
“Ay, and offered him the 'rolls' too,” said Sheil.
“It's no use,” interposed Pierce; “he's not to be caught.”
“Could n't ye make Tom Steele Bishop of Cashel?”
“He wouldn't take it,” groaned the viceroy.
“Is Mr. Arkips a privy councillor?”
“No; but he might if he liked. There's no use in these trifles.”
“_Eureka_, gents, I have it!” cried my lord; “order post-horses for me
this instant--I have it!”
And so he had, and by that act alone he stamped himself as the first man
of his party.
Swift philosophised on the satiric touch of building a madhouse, as the
most appropriate charity to Ireland; but what would he have said had
he heard that the greatest favour its rulers could bestow--the most
flattering compliment to national feeling--was to open the gaols, to let
loose robbers and housebreakers, highwaymen and cutthroats--to return
burglars to their afflicted homes, and bring back felons to their
weeping families. Some sneering critic will object to it, as
scarcely complimentary to a country to say--“these gentlemen are only
thieves--murderers; they cannot hurt _your_ morals. They were sentenced
to transportation, but why should we spread vice among innocent bushmen,
and disseminate wickedness through Norfolk Island? Let them loose where
they are, they know the ways of the place, they 'll not murder the
'wrong man;' depend upon it, too, the rent won't suffer by their
remaining.” And so my lord took off the handcuffs, and filed the
fetters; and the bondsmen, albeit not all “hereditary,” went free. Who
should be called the Liberator, I ask, after this? Is it your Daniel,
who promises year after year, and never performs; or you, my lord,
who strikes off real chains, not metaphorical ones, and liberates real
captives, not figurative slaves?
It was, indeed, a “great day for Ireland” when the villains got loose;
and must have been a strong lesson on the score of domestic duty to
many a roving blade, who preferred spending that evening at home, to
venturing out after dark. My lord covered himself with laurels, and
albeit they were gathered, as Lord Wellesley said, in the “Groves of
Blarney,” they well became the brow they ornamented.
I should scarcely have thought necessary to ring a paean of praise on
this great governor, if it were not for a most unaccountable attack
his magnanimous and stupendous mercy, as Tom Steele would call it, has
called forth from some organ of the press.