Kitabı oku: «Nuts and Nutcrackers», sayfa 14

A NUT FOR A “NEW VERDICT.”

Money-getting and cotton-spinning have left us little time for fun of any kind in England – no one has a moment to spare, let him be ever so droll, and a joke seems now to be esteemed a bona fide expenditure; and as “a pin a day” is said to be “a groat a year,” there is no calculating what an inroad any manner of pleasantry might not make into a man’s income. Book-writers have ceased to be laughter-moving – the stage has given it up altogether, except now and then in a new tragedy – society prefers gravity to gaiety – and, in fact, the spirit of comic fun and drollery would seem to have died out in the land – if it were not for that inimitable institution called trial by jury. Bless their honest hearts! jurymen do indeed relieve the drab-coloured look of every-day life – they come out in strong colour from the sombre tints of common-place events and people. Queer dogs! nothing can damp the warm ardour of their comic vein – all the solemnity of a court of justice – the look of the bar and the bench – the voice of the crier – the blue bags of briefs – the “terrible show,” has no effect on their minds – “ruat coelum,” they will have their joke.

It is in vain for the judge, let him be ever so rigid in his charge, to tell them that their province is simply with certain facts, on which they have to pronounce an opinion of yea or nay. They must be jurymen, and “something more.” It’s not every day Mr. Sniggins, of Pimlico, is called upon to keep company with a chief-justice and sergeant learned in the law – Popkins don’t leave his shop once a week to discuss Coke upon Littleton with an attorney-general. No: the event to them is a great one – there they sit, fawned on, and flattered by counsel on both sides – called impartial and intelligent, and all that – and while every impertinence the law encourages has been bandied about the body of the court, they remain to be lauded and praised by all parties, for they have a verdict in their power, and when it comes – what a thing it is!

There is a well-known story of an English nobleman, desiring to remain incog. in Calais, telling his negro servant – “If any one ask who I am, Sambo, mind you say, ‘a Frenchman.’” Sambo carried out the instruction by saying – “My massa a Frenchman, and so am I.” This anecdote exactly exemplifies a verdict of a jury – it cannot stop short at sense, but must, by one fatal plunge, involve its decision in absurdity.

Hear what lately happened in the north of Ireland. A man was tried and found guilty of murder – the case admitted no doubt – the act was a cold-blooded, deliberate assassination, committed by a soldier on his sergeant, in the presence of many witnesses. The trial proceeded; the facts were proved; and – I quote the local newspaper —

“The jury retired, and were shut up when the judge left the court, at half-past seven. At nine, his lordship returned to court, when the foreman of the jury intimated that they had agreed. They were then called into court, and having answered to their names, returned a verdict of guilty, but recommended the prisoner to mercy upon account of the close intimacy that existed between the parties at the time of the occurrence.”

Now, what ever equalled this? When the jury who tried Madame Laffarge for the murder of her husband, returned a verdict of guilty, with that recommendation to mercy which is implied by the words “des circumstances atténuantes,” Alphonse Karr pronounced the “extenuating circumstances,” to be the fact, that she always mixed gum with the arsenic, and never gave him his poison “neat.”

But even they never thought of carrying out their humanity farther by employing the Belfast plea, that she had been “intimate with him” before she killed him. No, it was reserved for our canny northerns to find out this new secret of criminal jurisprudence, and to show the world that there is a deep philosophy in the vulgar expression, a blood relation – meaning thereby that degree of allianceship which admits of butchery, and makes killing no murder; for if intimacy be a ground of mercy, what must be friendship, what brotherhood, or paternity?

Were this plea to become general, how cautious would men become about their acquaintances – what a dread they would entertain of becoming intimate with gentlemen from Tipperary!

I scarcely think the Whigs would throw out such lures for Dan and his followers, if they could consider these consequences; and I doubt much – taking everything into consideration, that the “Duke” would see so much of Lord Brougham as he has latterly.

“Whom can a man make free with, if not with his friends?” saith Figaro; and the Belfast men have studied Beaumarchais, and only “carried out his principle,” as the Whigs say, when they speak of establishing popery in Ireland, to complete the intention of emancipation.

Lawyers must have been prodigiously sick of all the usual arguments in defence of prisoners in criminal cases many a year ago. One of the cleverest lawyers and the cleverest men I ever knew, says he would hang any man who was defended on an alibi, and backed by a good character. Insanity is worn out; but here comes Belfast to the rescue, with its plea of intimacy. Show that your client was no common acquaintance – prove clearly habits of meeting and dining together – display a degree of friendship between the parties that bordered on brotherhood, and all is safe. Let your witness satisfy the jury that they never had an altercation or angry word in their lives, and depend upon it, killing will seem merely a little freak of eccentricity, that may be indulged with Norfolk Island, but not punished with the gallows.

“Guilty, my lord, but very intimate with the deceased,” is a new discovery in law, and will hereafter be known as “the Belfast verdict.”

A NUT FOR THE REAL “LIBERATOR.”

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.

This print, calling itself The Cork Constitution, thus discourseth: —

“Why, of 16 whom he pardoned, and of 41 whose sentences he 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.”

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 had 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” did n’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.