Nuts and Nutcrackers

Authors have long got the credit of being the most accomplished persons going – thoroughly conversant not only with the features of every walk and class in life, but also with their intimate sentiments, habits of thought, and modes of expression. Now, I have long been of opinion, that in all these respects, lawyers are infinitely their superiors. The author chooses his characters as you choose your dish, or your wine at dinner – he takes what suits, and leaves what is not available to his purpose. He then fashions them to his hand – finishing off this portrait, sketching that one – now bringing certain figures into strong light, anon throwing them into shadow: they are his creatures, who must obey him while living, and even die at his command. Now, the lawyer is called on for all the narrative and descriptive powers of his art, at a moment’s notice, without time for reading or preparation; and worse than all, his business frequently lies among the very arts and callings his taste is most repugnant to. One day he is to be found creeping, with a tortoise slowness through all the wearisome intricacy of an equity case – the next he is borne along in a torrent of indignant eloquence, in defence of some Orange processionist or some Ribbon associate: now he describes, with the gravity of a landscape gardener, the tortuous windings of a mill-stream; now expatiating in Lytton Bulwerisms over the desolate hearth and broken fortunes of some deserted husband. In one court he attempts to prove that the elderly gentleman whose life was insured for a thousand at the Phoenix, was instrumental to his own decease, for not eating Cayenne with his oysters; in another, he shows, with palpable clearness, that being stabbed in the body, and having the head fractured, is a venial offence, and merely the result of “political excitement” in a high-spirited and warm-hearted people.

These are all clever efforts, and demand consummate powers, at the hand of him who makes them; but what are they to that deep and critical research with which he seems, instinctively, to sound the depths of every scientific walk in life, and every learned profession. Hear him in a lunacy case – listen to the deep and subtle distinctions he draws between the symptoms of mere eccentricity and erring intellect – remark how insignificant the physician appears in the case, who has made these things the study of a life long – hear how the barrister confounds him with a hail-storm of technicals – talking of the pineal gland as if it was an officer of the court, and of atrophy of the cerebral lobes, as if he was speaking of an attorney’s clerk. Listen to him in a trial of supposed death by poison; what a triumph he has there, particularly if he be a junior barrister – how he walks undismayed among all the tests for arsenic – how little he cares for Marsh’s apparatus and Scheele’s discoveries – hydro-sulphates, peroxydes, iodurates, and proto-chlorides are familiar to him as household words. You would swear that he was nursed at a glass retort, and sipped his first milk through a blow-pipe. Like a child who thumps the keys of a pianoforte, and imagines himself a Liszt or Moschelles, so does your barrister revel amid the phraseology of a difficult science – pelting the witnesses with his insane blunders, and assuring the jury that their astonishment means ignorance.

Nothing in anatomy is too deep – nothing in chemistry too subtle – no fact in botany too obscure – no point in metaphysics too difficult. Like Dogberry, these things are to him but the gift of God; and he knows them at his birth. Truly, the chancellor is a powerful magician; and the mystic words by which he calls a gentleman to the bar, must have some potent spell within them.

The youth you remember as if it were yesterday, the lounger at evening parties, or the chaperon of tiding damsels to the Phoenix, comes forth now a man of deep and consummate acquirement – he whose chemistry went no further than the composition of a “tumbler of punch,” can now perform the most difficult experiments of Orfila or Davy, or explain the causes of failure in a test that has puzzled the scientific world for half a century. He knows the precise monetary value of a deserted maiden’s affections – he can tell you the exact sum, in bank notes, that a widow will be knocked down for, when her heart has been subject to but a feint attack of Cupid.

With what consummate skill, too, he can show that an indictment is invalid, when stabbing is inserted for cutting; and when the crown prosecutor has been deficient in his descriptive anatomy, what a glorious field for display is opened to him. Then, to be sure, what droll fellows they are! – how they do quiz the witness as he sits trembling on the table – what funny allusions to his habits of life – his age – his station – turning the whole battery of their powers of ridicule against him – ready, if he venture to retort, to throw themselves on the protection of the court. And truly, if a little Latin suffice for a priest, a little wit goes very far in a law court. A joke is a universal blessing: the judge, who, after all, is only “an old lawyer,” loves it from habit: the jury, generally speaking, are seldom in such good company, and they laugh from complaisance; and the bar joins in the mirth, on that great reciprocity principle, which enables them to bear each other’s dulness, and dine together afterwards. People are insane enough to talk of absenteeism as one of the evils of Ireland, and regret that we have no resident aristocracy among us – rather let us rejoice that we have them not, so long as the lawyers prove their legitimate successors.

How delightful in a land where civilization has still some little progress before it, and where the state of crime is not quite satisfactory – to know that we have those amongst us who know all things, feel all things, explain all things, and reconcile all things – who can throw such a Claude Lorraine light over right and wrong, that they are both mellowed into a sweet and hallowed softness, delightful to gaze on. How the secret of this universal acquirement is accomplished I know not – perhaps it is the wig.

What set me first on this train of thought, was a trial I lately read, where a cross action was sustained for damage at sea – the owners of the brig Durham against the Aurora, a foreign vessel, and vice versa, for the result of a collision at noon, on the 14th of October. It appeared that both vessels had taken shelter in the Humber from stress of weather, nearly at the same time – that the Durham, which preceded the Prussian vessel, “clewed up her top-sails, and dropped her anchor rather suddenly; and the Aurora being in the rear, the vessels came in collision.” The question, therefore, was, whether the Durham came to anchor too precipitately, and in an unseamanlike manner; or, in other words, whether, when the “Durham clewed up topsails, and let go her anchor, the Aurora should not have luffed up, or got stern way on her,” &c. Nothing could possibly be more instructive, nor anything scarcely more amusing, than the lucid arguments employed by the counsel on both sides. The learned Thebans, that would have been sick in a ferry-boat, spoke as if they had circumnavigated the globe. Stay-sails, braces, top-gallants, clews, and capstans they hurled at each other like bon bons at a carnival; and this naval engagement lasted from daylight to dark. Once only, when the judge “made it noon,” for a little refection, did they cease conflict, to renew the strife afterwards with more deadly daring, till at last so confused were the witnesses – the plaintiff, defendant, and all, that they half wished, they had gone to the bottom, before they thought of settling the differences in the Admiralty Court. This was no common occasion for the display of these powers so peculiarly the instinctive gift of the bar, and certainly they used it with all the enthusiasm of a bonne bouche.

How I trembled for the Aurora, when an elderly gentleman, with a wart on his nose, assured the court that the Durham had her top-sail backed ten minutes before the anchor fell; and then, how I feared again for the Durham, as a thin man in spectacles worked the Prussian, about in a double-reefed mainsail, and stood round in stays so beautifully. I thought myself at sea, so graphic was the whole description – the waves splashed and foamed around the bulwarks, and broke in spray upon the deck – the wind rattled amid the rigging – the bulkheads creaked, and the good ship heaved heavily in the trough of the sea, like a mighty monster in his agony. But my heart quailed not – I knew that Dr. Lushington was at the helm, and Dr. Haggard had the look-out a-head – I felt that Dr. Robinson stood by the lee braces, and Dr. Addison waited, hatchet in hand, to cut away the mainmast. These were comforting reflections, till I was once more enabled to believe myself in her Majesty’s High Court of Admiralty.

Alas! ye Coopers – ye Marryats – ye Charniers – ve historians of storm and sea-fight, how inferior are your triumphs compared with the descriptive eloquence of a law court. Who can pourtray the broken heart of blighted affection, like Charles Phillips in a breach of promise? What was Scott compared to Scarlett? – how inferior is Dickens to Counsellor O’Driscoll? – here are the men, who, without the trickery of trade, ungilt, unlettered, and unillustrated, can move the world to laughter and to tears. They ask no aid from Colburn, nor from Cruikshank – they need not “Brown” nor Longman. Heaven-born warriors, doctors, chemists, and anatomists – deep in every art, learned in every science – mankind is to them an open book, which they read at will, and con over at leisure – happy country, where we have you in abundance, and where your talents are so available, that they can be had for asking.

A NUT FOR THE IRISH

AN IRISH ENCORE

We certainly are a very original people, and contrive to do everything after a way of our own! Not content with cementing our friendships by fighting, and making the death of a relative the occasion of a merry evening, we even convert the habits we borrow from other land into something essentially different from their original intention, and infuse into them a spirit quite national. The echo which, when asked “How d’ye do, Paddy Blake?” replied, “Mighty well, thank you,” could only have been an Irish echo. Any other country would have sulkily responded, “Blake – ake – ake – ake,” in diminuendo to the end of the chapter. But there is a courtesy, an attention, a native politeness on our side of the channel, it is in vain to seek elsewhere. A very strong instance in point occurs in a morning paper before me, and one so delightfully characteristic of our habits and customs, it would be unpardonable to pass it without commemoration. At an evening concert at the Rotundo, we are informed that Mr Knight – I believe his name is – enchanted his audience by the charming manner he sung “Molly Astore.” Three distinct rounds of applause followed, and an encore that actually shook the building, and may – though we are not informed of the circumstance – have produced very remarkable effects in the adjacent institution; upon which Mr. Knight, with his habitual courtesy, came forward and sang – what, think ye, good reader? Of course you will say, “Molly Astore,” the song he was encored for. Alas! for your ignorance; – that might do very well in Liverpool or Manchester, at Bath, Bristol, or Birmingham – the poor benighted Saxons there might like to get what they asked so eagerly for; but we are men of very different mould, and not accustomed to the jog-trot subserviency of such common-sense notions; and accordingly, Mr. Knight sang “The Soldier Tired” – a piece of politeness on his part that actually convulsed the house with acclamations; and so on to the end of the entertainment, “the gentleman, when encored, invariably sang a new song” – I quote the paper verbatim– “which testimony of his anxiety to meet the wishes of the audience afforded universal satisfaction.”

Now, I ask – and I ask it in all the tranquillity of triumph – show me the country on a map where such a studied piece of courteous civility could have been practised, or which, if attempted, could have been so thoroughly, so instantaneously appreciated. And what an insight does it give us into some of the most difficult features of our national character. May not this Irish encore explain the success with which Mr. O’Connell consoles our “poverty” by attacks on the clergy, and relieves our years of scarcity by creating forty-shilling freeholders. We ask for bread; and he tells us we are a great people – we beg for work, and he replies, that we must have repeal of the union – we complain of our poverty, and his remedy is – subscribe to the rent. Your heavy-headed Englishman – your clod-hopper from Yorkshire – or your boor from Northumberland, would never understand this, if you gave him a life-long to con over it. Norfolk pudding to his gross and sensual nature would seem better than the new registration bill; and he’d rather hear the simmering music of the boiled beef for his dinner, than all the rabid ruffianism of a repeal meeting.

But to come back to ourselves. What bold and ample views of life do our free-and-easy habits disclose to us, not to speak of the very servant at table, who will often help you to soup, when you ask for sherry, and give you preserves, when you beg for pepper. What amiable cross-purposes are we always playing at – not bigotedly adhering to our own narrow notions, and following out our own petty views of life, but eagerly doing what we have no concern in, and meritoriously performing for our friends, what they had been well pleased, we’d have let alone.

This amiable waywardness – this pleasing uncertainty of purpose – characterises our very climate; and the day that breaks in sunshine becomes stormy at noon, calm towards evening, and blows a hurricane all night. So the Irishman that quits his home brimful of philanthropy is not unlikely to rob a church before his return. But so it is, there is nobody like us in any respect. We commemorate the advent of a sovereign by erecting a testimonial to the last spot he stood on at his departure; and we are enthusiastic in our gratitude when, having asked for one favour, we receive something as unlike it as possible.

Our friends at the other side are beginning to legislate for us in the true spirit of our prejudices; and when we have complained of “a beggared proprietary and a ruined gentry,” they have bolstered up our weakness with the new poor law. So much for an Irish encore.

“The sixth of Anne, chap, seventeen, makes it unlawful to keep gaming-houses in any part of the city except the ‘Castle,’ and prohibits any game being played even there except during the residence of the Lord Lieutenant. This act is still on the statute book.” —Dublin Paper.

One might puzzle himself for a very long time for an explanation of this strange morceau of legislation, without any hope of arriving at a shadow of a reason for it.

That gaming should be suppressed by a government is in no wise unnatural; nor should we feel any surprise at our legislature having been a century in advance of France, in the due restriction of this demoralizing practice. But that the exercise of a vice should be limited to the highest offices of the state is, indeed, singular, and demands no little reflection on our part to investigate the cause.

Had the functions of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland been of that drowsy, tiresome, uninteresting nature, that it was only deemed fair by the legislature to afford him some amusing pastime to distract his “ennui” and dispel his melancholy, there might seem to have been then some reason for this extraordinary enactment. On the contrary, however, every one knows that from the remotest times to the present, every viceroy of Ireland has had quite enough on his hands. Some have been saving money to pay off old mortgages, others were farming the Phoenix; some took to the King Cambyses’ vein, like poor dear Lord Normanby – raked up all the old properties and faded finery of the Castle, and with such material as they could collect, made a kind of Drury-lane representation of a court. And very lately, and with an originality so truly characteristic of true genius, Lord Ebrington struck out a line of his own, and slept away his time with such a persevering intensity of purpose, that “the least wide-awake” persons of his government became actually ashamed of themselves. But to go back. What, I would ask, was the intention of this act? I know you give it up. Well, now, I have made the matter the subject of long and serious thought, and I think I have discovered it.

Have you ever read, in the laws of the smaller German states, the singular rules and regulations regarding the gaming-table? If so, you will have found how the entire property of the “rouge et noi” and “roulette” is vested in certain individuals in return for very considerable sums of money, paid by them to the government, for the privilege of robbing the public. These honourable and estimable people farm out iniquity as you would do your demesne, selling the cheatable features of mankind, like the new corn law, on the principle of “a general average.” The government of these states, finding – no uncommon thing in Germany – a deficiency in their exchequer, have hit upon this ready method of supplying the gap, by a system which has all the regularity of a tax, with the advantage of a voluntary contribution. These little kingdoms, therefore, of some half-dozen miles in circumference, are nothing more than rouge et noir tables, where the grand duke performs the part of croupier, and gathers in the gold. Now, I am convinced that something of this kind was intended by our lawgivers in the act of parliament to which I have alluded, and that its programme might run thus – that “as the office of Lord Lieutenant in Ireland is one of great responsibility, high trust, and necessarily demanding profuse expenditure; and that, as it may so happen that the same should, in the course of events, be filled by some Whig-Radical viceroy of great pretension and little property; and that as the ordinary sum for maintaining his dignity may be deemed insufficient, we hereby give him the exclusive liberty and privilege of all games of chance, skill, or address, in the kingdom of Ireland, whether the same may be chicken-hazard, blind hookey, head and tail, &c. – thimble-rigging was only known later – to be enjoyed by himself only, or by persons deputed by him; such privilege in nowise to extend to the lords justices, but only to exist during the actual residence and presence of the Lord Lieutenant himself.” —See the Act.

I cannot but admire the admirable tact that dictated this portion of legislation; at the same time, it does seem a little hard that the chancellor, the archbishop, and the other high functionaries, who administer the law in the absence of the viceroy, should not have been permitted the small privilege of a little unlimited loo, or even beggar-my-neighbour, particularly as the latter game is the popular one in Ireland.

There would seem, too, something like an appreciation of our national character in the spirit of this law, which, unhappily for England, and Ireland, too, has not always dictated her enactments concerning us. It is well known that we hate and abhor anything in the shape of a legal debt. Few Irishmen will refuse you the loan of five pounds; still fewer can persuade themselves to pay five shillings. The kingdom of Galway has long been celebrated for its enlightened notions on this subject, showing how much more conducive it is to personal independence and domestic economy, to spend five hundred pounds in resisting a claim, than to satisfy it by the payment of twenty. Accordingly, had any direct taxation of considerable amount been proposed for the support of viceregal dignity, the chances are – much as we like show and glitter, ardently as we admire all that gives us the semblance of a state – we should have buttoned up our pockets, and upon the principle of those economical little tracts, that teach us to do so much for ourselves, every man would have resolved to be “his own Lord Lieutenant;” coming, however, in the shape of an indirect taxation, a voluntary contribution to be withheld at leasure, the thing was unobjectionable.

You might not like cards, still less the company – a very possible circumstance, the latter, in some times we wot of not long since – Well, then, you saved your cash and your character by staying at home; on the other hand, it was a comfort to know that you could have your rubber of “shorts” or your game at écarté, while at the same time you were contributing to the maintenance of the crown, and discharging the devoirs of a loyal subject It is useless, however, to speculate upon an obsolete institution; the law has fallen into disuse, and the more is the pity. How one would like to have seen Lord Normanby, with that one curl of infantine simplicity that played upon his forehead, with that eternal leer of self-satisfied loveliness that rested on his features, playing banker at rouge et noir, or calling the throws at hazard. I am not quite so sure that the concern would have been so profitable as picturesque. The principal frequenters of his court were “York too;” Lord Plunket was a “downy cove;” and if Anthony Black took the box, most assuredly “I’d back the caster.” Now and then, to be sure, a stray, misguided country gentleman – a kind of “wet Tory” – used to be found at that court; just as one sees some respectable matronly woman at Ems or Baden, seated in a happy unconsciousness that all the company about her are rogues and swindlers, so he might afford some good sport, and assist to replenish the famished exchequer. Generally speaking, however, the play would not have kept the tables; and his lordship would have been in for the wax-lights, without the slightest chance of return.

As for his successor, “patience” would have been his only game; and indeed it was one he had to practise whilst he remained amongst us. Better days have now come: let us, therefore, inquire if a slight modification of the act might not be effected with benefit, and an amendment, somewhat thus, be introduced into the bill: – “That the words ‘Lord Mayor’ be substituted for the words ‘Lord Lieutenant;’ and that all the privileges, rights, immunities, &c, aforesaid, be enjoyed by him to his sole use and benefit; and also that, in place of the word ‘Castle,’ the word ‘Mansion-house’ stand part of this bill” – thus reserving to his lordship all monopoly in games of chance and address, without in anywise interfering with such practices of the like nature exercised by him elsewhere, and always permitted and conceded by whatever government in power.

Here, my dear countrymen, is no common suggestion. I am no prophet, like Sir Harcourt Lees; but still I venture to predict, that this system once legalised at the Mayoralty, the tribute is totally unnecessary. The little town of Spa, with scarce 10,000 inhabitants, pays the Belgian government 200,000 francs per annum for the liberty: what would Dublin – a city so populous and so idle? only think of the tail! – how admirably they could employ their little talent as “bonnets,” and the various other functionaries so essential to the well-being of a gambling-house; and, lastly, think of great Dan himself, with his burly look, seated in civic dignity at the green cloth, with a rake instead of a mace before him, calling out, “Make your game, gentlemen, make your game” – “Never venture, never win” – “Faint heart,” &c, &c.

How suitable would the eloquence that has now grown tiresome, even at 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 twopence, 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 a finance; 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 snout for repeal.

RICH AND POOR-POUR ET CONTRE

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.

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, un-fenced 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 Betliam, 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.”