Chapter VI: Part 6

Two doubts press upon us--who is to receive her Majesty; and how are they to do it? They who have large houses generally happen to have small fortunes, and among the few who have adequate means, there is scarcely one who could accommodate one half of the royal suite. In Scotland, everything worthy of being seen lies in a ring-fence. The Highlands comprise all that is remarkable in the country; and thus the tour of them presents a quick succession of picturesque beauty without the interval of even half a day's journey devoid of interest. Now, how many weary miles must her Majesty travel in Ireland from one remarkable spot to another--what scenes of misery and want must she wade through from the south to the west. Would any charms of scenery--would any warmth of hospitality--repay her for the anguish such misery must inflict upon her, as her eye would range over the wild tract of country where want and disease seem to have fixed their dwelling, and where the only edifice that rises above the mud-cabin of the way-side presents the red brick front of a union poor-house? These, however, are sad topics--what are we to do with the Prince? His Royal Highness loves sporting: we have scarcely a pheasant--we have not one capercailzie in the island; but then we have our national pastimes. If we cannot turn out a stag to amuse him, why we can enlarge a tithe-proctor; and, instead of coming home proud that he has bagged a roe, he shall exult in having brought down a rector. How poor and insignificant would any _battue_ be in comparison with a good midnight burning--how contemptible the pursuit of rabbits and hares, when compared with a "tithe affray," or the last collision with the military in Tipperary. I have said that the Scotch have a national costume; but if _semi_-nakedness be a charm in them, what shall be said of us, who go the "whole hog?" The details of their ancient dress--their tartan, their kilt, their philabeg, that offered so much interest to the royal suite--how shall they vie with the million-coloured patches of an Irishman's garment? or what bonnet that ever flaunted in the breeze is fit to compare with the easy jauntiness of Paddy's _caubeen_, through which, in lieu of a feather, a lock of his hair is floating?

"Nor clasp nor nodding plume was there;
But for feather he wore one lock of hair."

_Marmion._

Then, again, how will the watch-fires that blazed upon the mountains pale before the glare of a burning haggard; and what cheer that ever rose from Highland throats will vie with the wild yell of ten thousand Black-feet on the march of a midnight marauding? No, no; it is quite clear the Scotch have no chance with us. Her Majesty may not have all her expectations fulfilled by a visit to Ireland; but most assuredly a "touch of our quality" will show her many things no near country could present, and the probability is, she will neither have time nor leisure for a trip to New Zealand.

Everything that indicates nationality will then have its reward. Grave dignitaries of the Church will practise the bagpipes, and prothonotaries will refresh their jig-dancing; whatever is Irish, will be _la vogue_; and, instead of reading that her Majesty wore a shawl of the Gordon tartan, manufactured at Paisley, we shall find that the Queen appeared in a novel pattern of rags, devised at Mud Island; while his Royal Highness will compliment the mildness of our climate by adopting our national dress. What a day for Ireland that will be!--we shall indeed be "great, glorious, and free;" and if the evening only concludes with the Irish Quadrilles, I have little doubt that her Majesty will repeat her exclamation of "How grand!" as she beholds the members of the royal suite moving gracefully to the air of "Stonybatter."

Let us, then, begin in time. Let there be an order of council to preserve all the parsons, agents, tithe-proctors, and landlords till June; let there be no more shooting in Tipperary for the rest of the season; let us "burke" Father Mathew, and endeavour to make our heads for the approaching festivities; and what between the new poor-law and the tariff, I think we shall be by that time in as picturesque a state of poverty as the most critical stickler for nationality would desire.

A NUT FOR "A NEW COMPANY."

By no one circumstance in our social condition is a foreigner more struck than by the fact that there is not a want, an ailing, an incapacity for which British philanthropy has not supplied its remedy of some sort or other. A very cursory glance at the advertising columns of the _Times_ will be all-sufficient to establish this assertion. Mental and bodily infirmities, pecuniary difficulties, family afflictions, natural defects, have all their separate _corps_ of comforters; and there is no suffering condition in life that has not a benevolent paragraph specially addressed to its consolation. To the "afflicted with gout;" to "all with corns and bunions;" to "the friends of a nervous invalid"--who is, by the bye, invariably a vicious madman; to "the childless;" to "those about to marry." Such are the headings of various little crumbs of comfort by which the active philanthropy of England sustains its reputation, and fills its pocket. From tooth-powder to tea-trays--from spring-mattrasses to fictitious mineral waters--from French blacking to the Widow Welch's Pills--all have their separate votaries; and it would be difficult to conceive any real or imaginary want unsupplied in this prolific age of contrivance.

A gentleman might descend from the moon, like our clever friend, "The Commissioner," and, by a little attention to these plausible paragraphs, become as thoroughly John Bull in all his habits and observances as though he were born within St. Pancras. "A widow lady with two daughters would take a gentleman to board, where all the advantages and comforts of a private family might be found, within ten minutes' walk from Greenwich. Unexceptionable references will be given and expected on either side." Here, without a moment's delay, he might be domiciled in an English family; here he might retire from all the cares and troubles of life, enjoying the tranquil pleasures of the widow's society, with no other risk or danger, save that of falling in love with one or both of the fair daughters, who have "a taste for music," and "speak French."

It is said that few countries offer less resources to the stranger than England; which I stoutly deny, and assert that no land has set up so many sign-posts by which to guide the traveller--so many directions by which to advise his course. With us there is no risk of doing anything inappropriate, or incompatible with your station, if you will only suffer yourself to be borne along on the current. Your tailor knows not only the precise shade of colour which suits your complexion, but, as if by intuition, he divines the exact cut that suits your condition in life. Your coachmaker, in the same way, augurs from the tone of your voice, and the _contour_ of your features, the shade of colour for your carriage; and should you, by any misfortune, happen to be knighted, the Herald's-office deduce, from the very consonants of your name, the _quantum_ of emblazonry they can bestow on you, and from how far back among the burglars and highwaymen of antiquity they can venture to trace you. Should you, however, still more unfortunately, through any ignorance of etiquette, or any inattention to those minor forms of breeding with which every native is conversant, offer umbrage, however slight and unintentional, to those dread functionaries, the "new police;" were you by chance to gaze longer into a jeweller's window than is deemed decorous; were you to fall into any reverie which should induce you to slacken your pace, perchance to hum a tune, and thus be brought before the awful "Sir Peter," charged by "G 743" with having impeded the passengers--collected a crowd--being of suspicious appearance, and having refused "to tell who your friends were"--the odds are strongly against you that you perform a hornpipe upon the treadmill, or be employed in that very elegant chemical analysis, which consists in the extraction of magnesia from oyster-shells.

Now, let any man consider for a moment what a large, interesting, and annually-increasing portion of our population there is, who, from certain peculiarities attending their early condition, have never been blessed with relatives or kindred--who, having no available father and mother, have consequently no uncles, aunts, or cousins, nor any good friends. Here the law presses with a fearful severity upon the suffering and the afflicted, not upon the guilty and offending. The state has provided no possible contingencies by which such persons are to escape. A man can no more create a paternity than he can make a new planet. I have already said that with wealth at his disposal, ancestry and forefathers are easily procured. He can have them of any age, of any country, of any condition in life--churchmen or laymen--dignitaries of the law or violators of it;--'tis all one, they are made to order. But let him be in ever such urgent want of a near relative; let it be a kind and affectionate father, an attached and doting mother, that he stands in need of--he may study _The Times_ and _The Herald_--he may read _The Chronicle_ and _The Globe_, in vain! No benevolent society has directed its philanthropy in this channel; and not even a cross-grained uncle or a penurious aunt can be had for love or money.

Now this subject presents itself in two distinct views--one as regards its humanity, the other its expediency. As the latter, in the year of our Lord, 1844, would seem to offer a stronger claim on our attention, let us examine it first. Consider them how you will, these people form the most dangerous class of our population--these are the "waifs and strays" of mankind. Like snags and sawyers in the Mississippi, having no voyage to perform in life, their whole aim and destiny seems to be the shipwreck of others. With one end embedded in the mud of uncertain parentage, with the other they keep bobbing above the waves of life; but let them rise ever so high, they feel they cannot be extricated.

If rich, their happiness is crossed by their sense of isolation; for them there are no plum-pudding festivals at Christmas, no family goose-devourings at Michaelmas. They have none of those hundred little ties and torments which weary and diversify life. They have acres, but they have no uncles--they have gardens and graperies, but they cannot raise a grandfather--they may have a future, but they have scarcely a present; and they have no past.

Should they be poor, their solitary state suggests recklessness and vice. It is the restraint of early years that begets submission to the law later on, and he who has not learned the lesson of obedience when a child, is not an apt scholar when he becomes a man. This, however, is a part of the moral and humane consideration of the question, and like most other humane considerations, involves expense. With that we have nothing to do; our present business is with the rich; for their comfort and convenience our hint is intended, and our object to supply, on the shortest notice, and the most reasonable terms, such relatives of either sex as the applicant shall stand in need of.

Let there be, therefore, established a new joint stock company to be called the "GRAND UNITED ANCESTRAL, KINDRED, AND BLOOD RELATION SOCIETY"--capital any number of pounds sterling. Actuaries--Messrs. Oliver Twist and Jacob Faithful.

Only think of the benefits of such a company! Reflect upon the numbers who leave their homes every morning without parentage, and who might now possess any amount of relatives they desire before night. Every one knows that a respectable livelihood is made by a set of persons whose occupation it is to become bails at the different police offices, for any class of offence, and to any amount. They exercise their calling somewhat like bill-brokers, taking special pains always to secure themselves against loss, and make a trifle of money, while displaying an unbounded philanthropy. Here then is a class of persons most appropriate for our purpose: fathers, uncles, first cousins, even grandfathers, might be made out of these at a moment's notice. What affecting scenes, too, might be got up at Bow-street, under such circumstances, of penitent sons, and pardoning parents, of unforgiving uncles and imploring nephews. How would the eloquence of the worshipful bench revel, on such occasions, for its display. What admonitions would it not pour forth, what warnings, what commiseration, and what condolings. Then what a satisfaction to the culprit to know that all these things were managed by a respectable company, who were "responsible in every case for the good conduct of its servants." No extortion permitted--no bribery allowed; a regular rate of charges being printed, which every individual was bound, like a cab-man, to show if required.

So much for a father, if respectable; so much more, if professional; or in private life, increased premium. An angry parent, we'll say two and sixpence; sorrowful, three shillings; "deeply afflicted and bound to weep," five shillings.

A widowed mother, in good weeds, one and sixpence; do, do, in a cab, half a crown; and so on.

How many are there besides who, not actually in the condition we speak of, would be delighted to avail themselves of the benefits of this institution. How many moving in the society of the west end, with a father a tobacconist or a cheesemonger in the city, would gladly pay well for a fashionable parent supposed to live upon his estate in Yorkshire, or entertaining, as the _Morning Post_ has it, a "distinguished party at his shooting lodge in the Highlands." What a luxury, when dining his friends at the Clarendon, to be able to talk of his "Old Governor" hunting his hounds twice a week, while, at the same moment, the real individual was engaged in the manufacture of soap and short sixes. What happiness to recommend the game-pie, when the grouse was sent by his Uncle, while he felt that the only individual who stood in that capacity respecting him, had three gilt balls over his door, and was more conversant with duplicates than double barrels.

But why pursue a theme whose benefits are self-evident, and come home to every bosom in the vast community. It is one of "the wants of our age," and we hope ere long to see the "fathers" as much respected in Clerkenwell or College-street, as ever they were in Clongowes or Maynooth.

A NUT FOR "POLITICAL ECONOMISTS."

This is the age of political economists and their nostrums. Every newspaper teems with projects for the amelioration of our working classes, and the land is full of farming societies, temperance unions, and a hundred other Peter Purcellisms, to improve its social condition; the charge to make us

"Great, glorious, and free,"

remaining with that estimable and irreproachable individual who tumbles in Lower Abbey-street.

The Frenchman's horse would, it is said, have inevitably finished his education, and accomplished the faculty of existing without food, had he only survived another twenty-four hours. Now, the condition of Ireland is not very dissimilar, and I only hope that we may have sufficient tenacity of life to outlive the numerous schemes for our prosperity and advancement.

Nothing, indeed, can be more singular than the manner of every endeavour to benefit his country. We are poor--every man of us is only struggling; therefore, we are recommended to build expensive poorhouses, and fill them with some of ourselves. We have scarcely wherewithal to meet the ordinary demands of life, and straightway are told to subscribe to various new societies--repeal funds--agricultural clubs--O'Connell tributes--and Mathew testimonials. This, to any short-sighted person, might appear a very novel mode of filling our own pockets. There are one-idea'd people in the world, who can only take up the impression which, at first blush, any subject suggests; they, I say, might fancy that a continued system of donation, unattended by anything like receipt, is not exactly the surest element of individual prosperity. I hope to be able to controvert this plausible, but shallow theory, and to show--and what a happy thing it is for us--to show that, not only is our poverty the source of our greatest prosperity, but that if by any accident we should become rich, we must inevitably be ruined; and to begin--

Absenteeism is agreed on all hands to be the bane of Ireland. No one, whatever be his party prejudices, will venture to deny this. The high-principled and well-informed country gentleman professes this opinion in common with the illiterate and rabid follower of O'Connell; I need not, therefore, insist further on a proposition so universally acknowledged. To proceed--of all people, none are so naturally absentees as the Irish; in fact, it would seem that one great feature of our patriotism consists in the desire to display, in other lands, the ardent attachment we bear our own. How can we tell Frenchmen, Italians, Germans, Russians, Swedes, and Swiss, how devoted we are to the country of our birth, if we do not go abroad to do so? How can we shed tears as exiles, unless we become so? How can we rail about the wrongs of Ireland and English tyranny, if we do not go among people, who, being perfectly ignorant of both, may chance to believe us? These are the patriotic arguments for absenteeism; then come others, which may be classed under the head of "expediency reasons," such as debts, duns, outlawries, &c. Thirdly, the temptations of the Continent, which, to a certain class of our countrymen, are of the very strongest description--Corn Exchange politics, vulgar associates, an air of bully, and a voice of brogue, will not form such obstacles to success in Paris, as in Dublin. A man can scarcely introduce an Irish provincialism into his French, and he would be a clever fellow who could accomplish a bull under a twelvemonth. These, then, form the social reasons; and from a short revision of all three, it will be seen that they include a very large proportion of the land--Mr. O'Connell talks of them as seven millions.

It being now proved, I hope, to my reader's satisfaction, that the bent of an Irishman is to go abroad, let us briefly inquire, what is it that ever prevents him so doing? The answer is an easy one. When Paddy was told by his priest that whenever he went into a public-house to drink, his guardian angel stood weeping at the door, his ready reply was, "that if he had a tester he'd have been in too;" so it is exactly with absenteeism; it is only poverty that checks it. The man with five pounds in his pocket starts to spend it in England; make it _ten_, and he goes to Paris; _fifteen_, and he's up the Rhine; _twenty_, and Constantinople is not far enough for him! Whereas, if the sum of his wealth had been a matter of shillings, he'd have been satisfied with a trip to Kingstown, a chop at Jude's, a place in the pit, and a penny to the repeal fund; all of which would redound to his patriotism, and the "prosperity of Ireland."

The same line of argument applies to every feature of expense. If we patronise "Irish manufacture," it is because we cannot afford English. If we like Dublin society, it is upon the same principle; and, in fact, the cheap pleasures of home, form the sheet-anchor of our patriotism, and we are only "guardian angels," because "we haven't a tester."

Away then with any flimsy endeavours to introduce English capital or Scotch industry. Let us persevere in our present habits of mutual dislike, attack, and recrimination; let us interfere with the projects of English civilisation, and forward, by every means in our power, the enlightened doctrines of popery, and the patriotic pastime of parson-shooting, for even in sporting we dispense with a "game license;" let no influx of wealth offer to us the seduction of quitting home, and never let us feel with our national poet that "Ireland is a beautiful country to live out of."

A NUT FOR "GRAND DUKES."

God help me but I have always looked upon a "grand duke" pretty much in the same light that I have regarded the "Great Lama," that is to say, a very singular and curious object of worship in its native country. How any thing totally destitute of sovereign attributes could ever be an idol, either for religious or political adoration, is somewhat singular, and after much pains and reflections on the subject, I came to the opinion, that German princes were valued by their subjects pretty much on the principle the Indians select their idols, and knowing men admire thorough-bred Scotch terriers--viz., not their beauty.

Of all the cant this most canting age abounds in, nothing is more repulsive and disgusting than the absurd laudation which travellers pour forth concerning these people, by the very ludicrous blunder of comparing a foreign aristocracy with our own. Now, what is a German grand duke? Picture to yourself a very corpulent, moustached, and befrogged individual, who has a territory about the size of the Phoenix Park, and a city as big and as flourishing as the Blackrock; the expenses of his civil list are defrayed by a chalybeate spring, and the budget of his army by the license of a gambling-house, and then read the following passage from "Howitt's Life in Germany," which, with that admirable appreciation of excellence so eminently their characteristic, the newspapers have been copying this week past--

"You may sometimes see a grand duke come into a country inn, call for his glass of ale, drink it, pay for it, and go away as unceremoniously as yourself. The consequence of this easy familiarity is, that princes are everywhere popular, and the daily occurrence of their presence amongst the people, prevents that absurd crush and stare at them, which prevails in more luxurious and exclusive countries."

That princes do go into country inns, call for ale, and drink it, I firmly believe; a circumstance, however, which I put the less value upon, inasmuch as the inn is pretty much like the prince's own house, the ale very like what he has at home, and the innkeeper as near as possible, in breeding, manner, and appearance, his equal. That he _pays_ for the drink, which our author takes pains to mention, excites all my admiration; but I confess I have no words to express my pleasure on reading that "he goes away again," and, as Mr. Howitt has it, "as unceremoniously as yourself," neither stopping to crack the landlord's crown, smash the pewter, break the till, nor even put a star in the looking-glass over the fire-place, a condescension on his part which leads to the fact, that "princes are everywhere popular."

Now, considering that Mr. Howitt is a Quaker, it is somewhat remarkable the high estimate he entertains of this "grand ducal" forbearance. What he expected his highness to have done when he had finished his drink, I am as much at a loss to conjecture, as what trait we are called upon to admire in the entire circumstance; when the German prince went into the inn, and knocking three times with a copper kreutzer on the counter, called for his choppin of beer, he was exactly acting up to the ordinary habits of his station, as when the Duke of Northumberland, on his arriving with four carriages at the "Clarendon," occupied a complete suite of apartments, and partook of a most sumptuous dinner. Neither more nor less. His Grace of Alnwick might as well be lauded for his ducal urbanity as the German prince for his, each was fulfilling his destiny in his own way, and there was not anything a whit more worthy of admiration in the one case, than in the other.

But three hundred pounds per annum, even in a cheap country, afford few luxuries; and if the Germans are indifferent to cholic, there might be, after all, something praiseworthy in the beer-drinking, and here I leave it.

A NUT FOR THE EAST INDIA DIRECTORS.

When the East India Directors recalled Lord Ellenborough, and replaced him by Sir Henry Harding, the impression upon the public mind was, as was natural it should be, that the course of policy adopted by the former, was such as met not their approval, and should not be persisted in by his successor.

To supersede one man by another, that he might perform the very same acts in the same way, would be something too ludicrous and absurd. When John Bull chassees the Tories, and takes to the Whigs, it is because he has had enough of Peel, and wants to try a stage with Lord John, who handles the ribbons differently, and drives another sort of a team; a piebald set of screws they are, to be sure, but they can go the pace when they are at it; and, as the road generally lies downhill, they get along right merrily. But John would never think of a change, if the pace were to be always the same. No; he'd just put up with the set he had, and take his chance. Not so your India Directors. They are quite satisfied with everything; all is right, orderly, and proper; but still they would rather that another man were at the head of affairs, to do exactly what had been done before. "What are you doing, Peter?"--"Nothing, sir." "And you, Jem, what are you about?"--"Helping Peter, sir." That is precisely the case, and Sir Henry is gone out to help Lord Ellenborough.

Such a line of proceeding is doubtless singular enough, and many sensible people there are, who cannot comprehend the object and intention of the wise Directors; while, by the press, severe imputations have been thrown upon their consistency and intelligence, and some have gone so far as to call their conduct unparalleled.

This, however, is unjust. The Old Almanack, as Lord Brougham would call it, has registered a not inapplicable precedent; and, in the anxious hope of being remembered by the "Old Lady," I hasten to mention it:--

When Louis XIV. grew tired of Madame la Valliere, and desired to replace her by another in his favour, he committed the difficult task of explanation on the subject, to his faithful friend and confessor, Bossuet. The worthy Bishop undertook his delicate mission with diffidence; but he executed it with tact. The gentle La Valliere wept bitterly; she knew nothing of the misfortune that menaced her. She believed that her star still stood in the ascendant, and fancied (like Lord Ellenborough) that her blandishments were never more acknowledged. "Whence, then, this change?" cried she, in the agony of her grief. "How have I offended him?"

"You mistake me, my daughter," said Mons. de Meaux. "His Majesty is most tenderly attached to you; but religious scruples--qualms of conscience--have come upon him. 'C'est par la peur du diable,' that he consents to this separation."

Poor Louise dried her tears; the case was bad enough, but there was one consolation--it was religion, and not a rival, had cost her a lover; and so she began her preparations for departure with a heart somewhat less heavy. On the day, however, of her leave-taking, a carriage, splashed and travel-stained, arrived at the "petite porte" of the Palace; and as instantaneously ran the rumour through the household that his Majesty's new mistress had arrived: and true it was, Madame de Maintenon had taken her place beside the fauteuil of the King.

"So, Mons. de Bossuet," said La Valliere, as he handed her to her carriage--"so, then, his Majesty has exiled me, 'par la peur du diable.'"

The Bishop bowed in tacit submission and acquiescence.

"In that case," resumed she, "c'est par complaisance au diable, that he accepts Madame de Maintenon."

A FILBERT FOR SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Sir Robert Peel was never more triumphant than when, in the last session of Parliament, he rebuked his followers for a casual defection in the support of Government, by asking them what they had to complain of. Are _we_ not on the Treasury benches? said the Right Honourable Baronet. Do not my friend Graham and myself guide and direct you?--do we not distribute the patronage and the honours of the government,--take the pay--and rule the kingdom--what more would you have? Ungrateful bucolics, you know not what you want! The apostrophe was bold, but not original. I remember hearing of a West country farmer having ridden a long day's journey on a poor, ill-fed hack, which, as evening drew near, showed many symptoms of a fatal knock-up. The rider himself was well tired, too, and stopped at an ale-house for a moment's refreshment, while he left the jaded beast standing at the door. As he remounted his saddle, a few minutes after, he seized his reins briskly, flourished his whip (both like Sir Robert), and exclaimed:--"I've had two glasses of spirits.--Let us see if you won't go after that."

"THE INCOME TAX."

Among the many singular objections which have been made to the new property tax, I find Mr. C. Buller stating in the House, that his greatest dislike to the project lay in the exceedingly small amount of the impost.

"My wound is great because it is so small,"

might have been the text of the honourable and learned gentleman's oration. After setting forth most eloquently the varied distresses of the country--its accumulating debt and heavy taxation--he turns the whole weight of his honest indignation against the new imposition, because, forsooth, it is so "little burdensome, and will inflict so slight an additional load upon the tax-payer." There is an attempt at argument, however, on the subject, which is somewhat amusing; for he continues not only to lament the smallness of the new tax, but the "slight necessity that exists" even for that. Had we some great national loss to make up, the deficiency of which rendered a call on the united people necessary, then, quoth he, how happily we should stand forward in support of the Constitution. In fact, he deplores, in the most moving terms, that ill off as the country is, yet it is not one-half so bad as it might be, or as he should like to see it. Ah! had we only some disastrous Continental war, devastating our commerce--ruining our Colonies, and eating into the very heart of our national resources--how gladly I should pay this Income Tax; but to remedy a curable evil--to restore, by prompt and energetic measures, the growing disease of the State--is a poor, pettifogging practice, that has neither heroism nor fame to recommend it. I remember hearing that at one of those excellent institutions, so appropriately denominated Magdalen Asylums, a poor, but innocent girl, presented herself for admission, pleading her lonely and deserted condition, as a plea for her reception. The patroness, an amiable and excellent person--but somewhat of the complexion of the honourable and learned Member for Liskeard--asked at once, whether she had resolved on a total reformation of her mode of life. The other replied, that her habits had been always chaste and virtuous, and that her character had been invariably above reproach. "Ah, in that case," rejoined the lady, "we can't admit you; this institution is expressly for the reception of penitents. If you could only qualify for a week or so, there is no objection to your admission."

Is not this exactly Mr. Buller's proposition? "Let us have the Whigs back for a few years longer; let us return to our admirable foreign policy; and when we have successfully embroiled ourselves with America, lost Canada, been beaten in China, driven out of our Eastern possessions, and provoked a war with France, then I'm your man for an Income Tax; lay it on only heavily; let the nation, already bowed down under the heavy burden of its calamities, receive in addition the gracious boon of enormous taxation." Homoeopathy teaches us that nothing is so curative in its agency, as the very cause of our present suffering, or something as analogous to it as possible; and, like Hahnemann, Mr. Buller administers what the vulgar call "a hair of the dog that bit us," as the most sovereign remedy for all our evils.

The country is like a sick man with a whitlow, for the cure of which his physician prescribes a slight, but clearly necessary, operation. Another medical Dr. Buller is, however, standing by. He at once insinuates his veto; remarks upon the trivial nature of the disease--the unpainful character of the remedy; "but wait," adds he--"wait till the inflammation extends higher; have patience till the hand becomes swollen and the arm affected; and then, when your agony is beyond endurance, and your life endangered, then we'll amputate the limb high up, and mayhap you may recover, after all."

As for me, it is the only occasion I'm aware of, where a successful comparison can be instituted between honour and the Whigs; for assuredly neither have "any skill in surgery."

A NUT FOR THE "BELGES."

Every one knows that men in masses, whether the same be called boards, committees, aggregate, or repeal meetings, will be capable of atrocities and iniquities, to which, as individuals, their natures would be firmly repugnant. The irresponsibility of a number is felt by every member, and Curran was not far wrong when he said, a "corporation was a thing that had neither a body to be kicked, nor a soul to be damned."

It is, indeed, a melancholy fact, that nations partake much more frequently of the bad than the good features of the individuals composing them, and it requires no small amount of virtue to flavour the great caldron of a people, and make its incense rise gratefully to heaven. For this reason, we are ever ready to accept with enthusiasm anything like a national tribute to high principle and honour. Such glorious bursts are a source of pride to human nature itself, and we hail with acclamation these evidences of exalted feeling, which make men "come nearer to the gods." The greater the sacrifice to selfish interests and prejudices, the more do we prize the effort. Think for a moment what a sensation of surprise and admiration, wonderment, awe, and approbation it would excite throughout Europe, if, by the next arrival from Boston, came the news that "the Americans had determined to pay their debts!" That at some great congress of the States, resolutions were carried to the effect, "that roguery and cheating will occasionally lower a people in the estimation of others, and that the indulgences of such national practices may be, in the end, prejudicial to national honour;" "that honesty, if not the best, may be good policy, even in a go-a-head state of society;" "that smart men, however a source of well-founded pride to a people, are now and then inconvenient from the very excess of their smartness;" "that seeing these things, and feeling all the unhappy results which mistrust and suspicion by foreign countries must bring upon their commerce, they have determined to pay something in the pound, and go a-head once more." I am sure that such an announcement would be hailed with illuminations from Hamburg to Leghorn. American citizens would be cheered wherever they were found; pumpkin pie would figure at royal tables, and twist and cocktail be handed round with the coffee; our exquisites would take to chewing and its consequences; and our belles, banishing Rossini and Donizetti, would make the air vocal with the sweet sounds of Yankee Doodle. One cannot at a moment contemplate what excesses our enthusiasm might not carry us to; and I should not wonder in the least if some great publisher of respectable standing might not start a pirated reprint of the _New York Herald_.

Let me now go back and explain, if my excitement will permit me, how I have been led into such extravagant imaginings. I have already remarked, that nations seldom gave evidence of noble bursts of feeling; still more rarely, I regret to say, do they evince any sorrow for past misconduct--any penitence for by-gone evil.

This would be, indeed, the severest ordeal of a people's greatness; this, the brightest evidence of national purity. Happy am I to say such an instance is before us; proud am I to be the man to direct public attention to the fact. The following paragraph I copy verbatim from the _Times_.

"On the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle of
Waterloo, a black flag was hoisted by the Belgians at the
top of the monument erected on the field where the battle
was fought."

A black flag, the emblem of mourning, the device of sorrow and regret, waves over the field of Waterloo! Not placed there by vanquished France, whose legions fought with all their chivalry; not hoisted by the proud Gaul, on the plain where, in defeat, he bit the dust; but in penitence of heart, in deep sorrow and contrition, by the Belgians who ran--by the people who fled--by the soldiers who broke their ranks and escaped in terror.

What a noble self-abasement is this; how beautifully touching such an instance of a people's sorrow, and how affecting to think, that while in the halls of Apsley House the heroes were met together to commemorate the glorious day when they so nobly sustained their country's honour, another nation should be in sackcloth and ashes, in all the trappings of woe, mourning over the era of their shame, and sorrowing over their degradation. Oh, if a great people in all the majesty of their power, in all their might of intellect, strength, and riches, be an object of solemn awe and wonder, what shall we say of one whose virtues partake of the humble features of every-day life, whose sacrifice is the tearful offering of their own regrets?

Mr. O'Connell may declaim, and pronounce his eight millions the finest peasantry in the world--he may extol their virtues from Cork to Carrickfergus--he may ring the changes over their loyalty, their bravery, and their patriotism; but when eulogising the men who assure him "they are ready to die for their country," let him blush to think of the people who can "cry" for theirs.

A NUT FOR WORKHOUSE CHAPLAINS.

The bane and antidote of England is her immense manufacturing power--the faculty that enables her to inundate the whole habitable globe with the products of her industry, is at once the source of her prosperity and poverty--her millionnaire mill-owners and her impoverished thousands. Never was the skill of machinery pushed to the same wonderful extent--never the results of mechanical invention so astoundingly developed. Men are but the presiding genii over the wonder-working slaves of their creative powers, and the child, is the volition that gives impulse to the giant force of a mighty engine. Subdivision of labour, carried to an extent almost incredible, has facilitated despatch, and induced a higher degree of excellence in every branch of mechanism--human ingenuity is racked, chemical analysis investigated, mathematical research explored--and all, that Mr. Binns, of Birmingham, may make thirteen minikin pins--while Mr. Sims, of Stockport, has been making but twelve. Let him but succeed in this, and straightway his income is quadrupled--his eldest son is member for a manufacturing borough, his second is a cornet in the Life Guards--his daughter, with a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, is married to the heir of a marquisate--and his wife, soaring above the murky atmosphere of the factory, breathes the purer air of western London, and advertises her _soirees_ in the _Morning Post_. The pursuit of wealth is now the grand characteristic of our age and country; and the headlong race of money-getting seems the great feature of the day. To this end the thundering steamer ploughs the white-crested wave of the broad Atlantic--to this end the clattering locomotive darts through the air at sixty miles the hour--for this, the thousand hammers of the foundry, the ten thousand wheels of the factory are at work--and man, toiling like a galley-slave, scarce takes time to breathe in his mad career, as with straining eyeballs and outstretched hands, he follows in the pursuit of lucre.

Now, men are imitative creatures; and strange enough, too, they are oftentimes disposed from the indulgence of the faculty to copy things, and adapt them to purposes very foreign to their original destination. This manufacturing speed, this steeple-chase of printed calico and Paisley wear, is all very well while it is limited to the districts where it began. That two hundred and seventy thousand white cotton night-caps, with a blue tassel on every one of them, can be made in twenty-four hours at Messrs. Twist and Tredlem's factory, is a very gratifying fact, particularly to all who indulge in ornamental head-gear--but we see no reason for carrying this dispatch into the Court of Chancery, and insisting that every nod of the woolsack is to decide a suit at law. Yet have the lawyer and the physician both adopted the impetuous practices of the manufacturing world, and Haste, red haste! is now the cry.

Lord Brougham's Chancery practice was only to be equalled by one of Lord Waterford's steeple-chases. He took all before him in a fly--he rode straight, plenty of neck, baulked nothing--up leap or down leap, sunk fence or double ditch, post and rail, or quickset, stone wall, or clay bank, all one to him--go it he would. Others might deny his judgment; he wanted to get over the ground, and _that_ he did do.

The West-end physician, in the same way, visits his fifty patients daily, walks his hospital, delivers a lecture to old ladies about some "curious provision" of nature in the palm of the human hand (for fee-taking); and devoting something like three minutes and twelve seconds to each sick man's case, pockets some twenty thousand per annum by his dispatch.

Speed is now the _El Dorado_. Jelly is advertised to be made in a minute, butter in five, soup seasoned and salted in three seconds of time. Even the Quakers--bless their quiet hearts!--couldn't escape the contagion, and actually began to walk and talk with some faint resemblance to ordinary mortals. The church alone maintained the even tenor of its way, and moved not in the wild career of the whirlwind world about it. Such was my gratulation, when my eye fell upon the following passage of the _Times_. Need I say with what a heavy heart I read it? It is Mr. Rushton who speaks:--

"In the month of December, 1841, he heard that a man had
been found dead in the streets of Liverpool; that all the
property he possessed had been taken from his person, and
that an attempt to trace his identity had been made in
vain. He was taken to the usual repository for the dead,
where an inquest had been held upon him, and from the 'dead
house,' as it was called, he was removed to the workhouse
burial-ground. The man who drove the hearse on the occasion
was very old, and not very capable of giving evidence. His
attendant was an idiot. It had been represented to Mr.
Hodgson and himself that the dead man had been taken in the
clothes in which he died and put into a coffin which was too
small for him; that a shroud was put over him; that the lid
of the coffin would not go down; and that he was taken from
the dead-house and buried in the parochial ground, no
funeral rites having been performed on the occasion. It had
also been communicated to Mr. Hodgson and himself that,
after two days, the clergyman who was instructed to perform
those rites over the paupers, came and performed one service
for the dead over all the paupers who had been buried in the
intermediate time."

Now, without stopping to criticise the workhouse equipage, which appears to be driven by a man too old to speak, with an idiot for his companion; nor even to advert to the scant ceremony of burying a man in his daily dress, and in a coffin that would not close on him--what shall we say of the "patent parson power" that buries paupers in detachments, and reads the service over platoons of dead? The reverend chaplain feeling the uncertainty of human life, and knowing how frail is our tie to existence, waits in the perfect conviction of a large party before he condescends to appear. Knowing that dead men tell no tales, he surmises also that they don't run away, and so he says to himself--these people are not pressed for time, they'll be here when I come again--it is a sickly season, and we'll have a field-day on Saturday. Cheap soup for the poor, says Mrs. Fry. Cheap justice, says O'Connell. Cheap clothing, says a tailor who makes new clothes from old, with a machine called a devil--but cheap burial is the boast of the Liverpool chaplain, and he is the most original among them.

A NUT FOR THE "HOUSE."

I have long been of opinion that a man may attain to a very respectable knowledge of Chinese ceremonies and etiquette before he can learn one half the usages of the honourable house. Seldom does a debate go forward without some absurd interruption taking place in a mere matter of form. Now it is a cry of "Order, order," to some gentleman who is subsequently discovered not to have been in the least disorderly, but whom the attack has so completely dumfounded, that he loses his speech and his self-possession, and sits down in confusion, to be sneered at in the morning papers, and hooted by his constituents when he goes home.

Now some gifted scion of aristocracy makes an essay in braying and cock-crowing, both permitted by privilege, and overwhelms the speaker with the uproar. Now it is that intolerable nuisance, old Hume, shouting out "divide," or "adjourn;" or it is Colonel Sibthorpe who counts the house. These ridiculous privileges of members to interfere with the current of public business because they may be sleepy or stupid themselves, are really intolerable, besides being so numerous that the first dozen years of a parliamentary life will scarcely teach a man a tithe of them. But of all these "rules of the house," the most unjust and tyrannical is that which compels a man to put up with any impertinence because he has already spoken. It would seem as if each honourable member "went down" with a single ball cartridge in his pouch, which, when fired, the best thing he could do was to go home and wait for another distribution of ammunition; for by remaining he only ran the risk of being riddled without any power to return the fire.

A case of this kind happened a few evenings since:--A Mr. Blewitt--I suppose the composer--made a very absurd motion, the object of which was to inquire "What office the Duke of Wellington held in the present government, and whether he was or was not a member of the cabinet." Without referring the learned gentleman to a certain erudite volume called the Yearly Almanack and Directory, Sir Robert Peel proceeded to explain the duke's position. He eulogised, as who would not? his grace's sagacity and his wisdom; the importance of his public services, and the great value the ministers, his _confreres_, set upon a judgment which, in a long life, had so seldom been found mistaken; and then he concluded by quoting from one of the duke's recent replies to some secretary or other who addressed him on a matter foreign to his department--"That he was one of the few men in the present day who did not meddle in affairs over which they have no control." "A piece of counsel," quoth Sir Robert, "I would strenuously advise the honourable member to apply to his own case."

Now we have already said that we think Blewitt--though an admirable musician--seems to be a very silly man. Still, if he really did not know what the duke represented in her Majesty's government--if he really were ignorant of what functions he exercised, the information might have been bestowed upon him without a retort like this. In the first place, his query, if a foolish, was at least a civil one; and in the second, it was his duty to understand a matter of this nature: it therefore came under his control, and Sir Robert's application of the quotation was perfectly uncalled-for. Well; what followed? Mr. Blewitt rose in wrath to reply, when the house called out, "Spoke, spoke!" and Blewitt was muzzled; the moral of which is simply this--you ask a question in the house, and the individual addressed has a right to insult you, you having no power of rejoinder, under the etiquette of "spoke." Any flippancy may overturn a man at this rate; and the words "loud laughter," printed in italics in the _Chronicle_, is sure to renew the emotion at every breakfast table the morning after.

Now I am sorry for Blewitt, and think he was badly treated.

A NUT FOR "LAW REFORM."

Of all the institutions of England there is scarcely one more lauded, and more misunderstood, than trial by jury. At first blush, nothing can seem fairer and less objectionable than the unbiassed decision of twelve honest men, sworn to do justice. They hear patiently the evidence on both sides; and in addition to the light derivable from their own intelligence, they have the directing charge of the judge, who tells them wherein the question for their decision lies, what are the circumstances of which they are to take cognizance, and by what features of the case their verdict is to be guided. Yet look at the working of this much-boasted privilege. One jury brings in a verdict so contrary to all reason and justice, that they are sent back to reconsider it by the judge; another, more refractory still, won't come to any decision at all, and get carted to the verge of the county for their pains; and a third, improving on all former modes of proceeding, has adopted a newer and certainly most impartial manner of deciding a legal question. "Court of Common Pleas, London, July 6.--The Chief Justice (Tindal) asked the ground of objection, and ten of the jurymen answered that in the last case one of their colleagues had suggested that the verdict should be decided by tossing up!" Here is certainly a very important suggestion, and one which, recognising justice as a blind goddess, is strictly in conformity with the impersonation. Nothing could possibly be farther removed from the dangers of undue influence than decisions obtained in this manner. Not only are all the prejudices and party bearings of individual jurors avoided, but an honest and manly oblivion of all the evidence which might bias men if left to the guidance of their poor and erring faculties, is thus secured. It is human to err, says the poet moralist; and so the jurymen in question discovered, and would therefore rather refer a knotty question to another deity than Justice, whom men call Fortune. How much would it simplify our complex and gnarled code, the introduction of this system? In the next place, juries need not be any longer empannelled, the judge could "sky the copper" himself. The only question would be, to have a fair halfpenny. See with what rapidity the much-cavilled court would dispatch public business! I think I see our handsome Chief of the Common Pleas at home here, with his knowing eye watching the vibrations of the coin, and calling out in his sonorous tone, "Head--the plaintiff has it. Call another case." I peep into the Court of Chancery, and behold Sir Edward twirling the penny with more cautious fingers, and then with his sharp look and sharper voice, say, "Tail! Take a rule for the defendant."

No longer shall we hear objections as to the sufficiency of legal knowledge possessed by those in the judgment-seat. There will be no petty likings for this, and dislikings for that court; no changes of venue; no challenges of the jury; even Lord Brougham himself, of whom Sir Edward remarked, "What a pity it was he did not know a little law, for then he would have known a little of everything"--even he might be a chancellor once more. What a power of patronage it would give each succeeding ministry to know that capacity was of no consequence; and that the barrister of six years' standing could turn his penny as well as the leader in Chancery. Public business need never be delayed a moment; and if the Chief Baron were occupied in chamber, the crier of the court could perform his functions till he came back again.

A NUT FOR "CLIMBING BOYS."