Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

TWENTY YEARS' RECOLLECTIONS.

TWENTY YEARS' RECOLLECTIONS
OF AN
IRISH POLICE MAGISTRATE.

BY

FRANK THORPE PORTER, A.M., J.P.,

Barrister-at-Law,
AND FOR UPWARDS OF TWENTY YEARS A MAGISTRATE OF THE HEAD OFFICE OF
DUBLIN POLICE.

"Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te sciate hoc sciat alter."—Persius.

TENTH EDITION.

DUBLIN:
HODGES, FOSTER, AND FIGGIS.
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO., STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
1880.

PREFACE.

In submitting the following pages to the consideration of the public, I am influenced by a desire to extend the appetite which is so greedy in devouring fiction to some morsels of fact.

Several of my narratives refer to incidents which, in their disclosures, might occasion disagreeable feelings to the parties or to their kindred. In such cases, I shall adopt fictitious names; but in all the details offered to the reader, I shall include nothing which I do not firmly believe or personally know to be strictly true. To the former class must be referred several anecdotes derived from parental lips, and referring to years previous to my birth. In a theatre, the performers are neither applauded nor hissed from behind the scenes. The judgment which they have to encounter is that of the audience. As a literary manager, I shall leave each tragic or comic incident to the unbiassed opinion and criticism of my readers. I shall occasionally have to encounter the danger arising from allowing a great culprit to escape, or a virtuous and estimable individual to undergo misfortune. In this respect the writer of fiction possesses a vast advantage. He can lavish every worldly blessing on the deserving, and allot the direst punishments to vice and crime. But when we have to deal with stern realities, we may regret the occurrence of a fact which leaves guilt undetected and innocence in deep affliction. I can, however, safely assert, upon the experience of a long professional and official life, that vice seldom attains to great worldly prosperity, and that worth and integrity are rarely subjected to utter destitution.

It is difficult to classify anecdotes or reminiscences which are not connected with each other. The course I propose to adopt is to lay before my readers the narratives which I have derived from sources anterior to my birth, from lips truthful and occasionally humorous, but now silent for ever. I shall reserve, as far as possible, my own personal recollections for the latter part of this publication, in the hope that the amusement and information obtained from others, may soften the critical reader to an indulgent reception of the portion peculiarly connected with myself. I may remark that some anecdotes in which my name is introduced have been very extensively published in several periodicals. I accord to their authors my willing testimony as to their great imaginative power, for in the statements concerning me there is not one word of truth. My friend, Mr. Fitzpatrick, in his recent productions of "The Sham Squire" and "Ireland before the Union," has mentioned me as the source from which he derived the particulars of a few incidents in those interesting works. His unexaggerated correctness forms a strong contrast to the flippant fictions of others. However, when my name is brought before the public, in reference either to fiction or fact, it affords me some apology for appearing in propriâ personâ.

I cannot refrain from subjoining to this preface, with the permission of the writer, a letter which I received soon after the publication of the first edition.

F. T. P.

Dublin Castle,
29th October, 1875.

Dear Mr. Porter,

"I must thank you for the gratification and amusement Lady Burke and I have found in your "Gleanings." The stories are full of interest, and the anecdotes are told with wit, humour, and piquancy. The volume is one of the cleverest books I have read this long time."

Yours very truly,
J. BERNARD BURKE, Ulster.

CONTENTS.

TWENTY YEARS' RECOLLECTIONS OF AN
IRISH POLICE MAGISTRATE.

CHAPTER I. LONERGAN'S CASE—OLD PRISONS.

Although it is probable that I may bring before my readers an incident or two of a more remote date, I shall commence with the narrative of an alleged crime and its supposed punishment, which has been adverted to by Sir Jonah Barrington in his "Personal Recollections," Vol. I., page 52, and in the description of which he has lapsed into considerable inaccuracy. According to him, the name of the person chiefly concerned was "Lanegan;" but in that respect there is a positive error; for by examining the records of the Crown Office, (Ireland,) I find the name, as my father had frequently stated to me, to be "Lonergan." He was a young man who had been educated at the school of the Rev. Eugene M'Kenna, of Raheny, in the County of Dublin, and from that establishment entered Trinity College, Dublin, in the year 1773. During his undergraduate course, he resided with Mr. M'Kenna, and acted as an assistant in the school. In 1777, having finished his University studies, he became a tutor in the family of Mr. Thomas O'Flaherty, of Castlefield, in the County of Kilkenny. That gentleman was singularly unfortunate in having married a woman of most depraved tendencies. She engaged in an intrigue with Lonergan, and on the 28th of June, 1778, Mr. O'Flaherty died under circumstances which occasioned the arrest of Lonergan, on a charge of having poisoned him. The woman evaded arrest and escaped to a foreign country. Some time must have elapsed between the commission of the crime and the apprehension of the accused party, for it was not until the Summer Assizes of Kilkenny, in 1781, that Lonergan was arraigned for Petit Treason, the offence being considered by the law, as it then existed, as more aggravated than murder, inasmuch as he was in the domestic service of the man whom he was alleged to have destroyed. He succeeded, on certain legal grounds, in postponing his trial; but in the ensuing term a writ of certiorari issued, and the indictment was removed to the Court of King's Bench. A trial at bar was held on November 12th, 1781, the jury having been brought up from Kilkenny. The prisoner was convicted, and sentenced to be hanged and quartered on the 24th of the aforesaid month, and the sheriffs of the City of Dublin were directed to have the sentence carried into effect. At the time of his conviction, the prisoner declared that he was innocent of the crime; but he admitted that he bought arsenic at the instance of Mrs. O'Flaherty, who, according to his statement, told him that she intended to use it in destroying rats. He did not deny the imputation of an adulterous intrigue with her. The Rev. Mr. M'Kenna did not forget his former pupil and assistant. He visited him in prison, testified to his character in very favorable terms at the trial, and, after condemnation, was assiduous in preparing him to meet his impending doom with Christian resignation. He determined to attend him to the termination of his sufferings, and to pay the last duties to his remains. M'Kenna was married to a cousin of my father, and he was on terms of the closest intimacy with our family. My father resided in Skinner Row, (now Christ Church Place,) Dublin; and at the period to which this narrative refers, he was in the prime of life—tall, vigorous, and active. He was also serjeant of the grenadier company of the Dublin Volunteers. He had known the unhappy Lonergan during the peaceful and comparative innocent days that the latter had spent at Raheny. He pitied the miserable fate of the culprit, doubted his guilt, and sympathized with the worthy man whose pious solicitude and friendship still sought to console the spirit that was so soon to pass away. On the evening before the execution, M'Kenna remained with the condemned as long as the regulations of the prison permitted. He then betook himself to my father's house, where he proposed to stay until the earliest hour of the morning at which he could be admitted to the gaol. Having mentioned that he would not fail to attend Lonergan to the consummation of his fate, in compliance with the culprit's request, he was informed by my father that he should also be at the execution, for that owing to the paucity of regular troops in Dublin, the sheriff had made a requisition for a guard of the Volunteers, and that the grenadier company were to attend at Baggot Street, (the Tyburn of Dublin,) to which place the prisoner was to be escorted from Thomas Street by a troop of cavalry.

Accordingly, on the 24th November, 1781, Lonergan, having briefly but very distinctly denied any participation in the crime for which he was condemned, was hanged by the withdrawal of the cart from beneath the gallows to which the halter was attached, and although he received no drop, his sufferings did not seem to be very acute. He almost immediately ceased to struggle, and life appeared to be extinct. The weather was extremely inclement; and when the body had been suspended for about twenty minutes, the sheriff acceded to a suggestion that it might be cut down. There was some difficulty in getting at the rope so as to cut it with a knife. M'Kenna remarked this to my father, who, drawing his short, slightly curved, and very sharp hanger, directed the cart to be backed towards the body. Then, springing up on the cart, he struck the rope where it crossed the beam, and severed it at once. A coffin was brought forward from a hearse which was in waiting. The sheriff directed the cap to be removed, and the body to be turned with the face down. Then he handed a sharp penknife to the executioner, who made two incisions across each other on the back of the neck. This was considered a formal compliance with the portion of the sentence which directed "quartering." The body was then left to the care of the faithful friend, M'Kenna, who directed it to be placed in the hearse and conveyed to his house at Raheny. On the 26th, a funeral, very scantily attended, proceeded to Raheny churchyard. M'Kenna had the coffin lowered into a very deep grave, and the burial service was read by the parochial clergyman. Persons were engaged to watch for a few nights lest any attempt should be made to exhume the corpse for anatomical purposes. In two days after the funeral my father received a note from M'Kenna, in consequence of which he immediately proceeded to Raheny. On his arrival he was pledged to secrecy and co-operation. He willingly assented, and having been conducted into a small apartment in the upper part of the house, he there beheld alive, although greatly debilitated, the man whom, at Baggot Street, he had cut down from the gallows. On the night of the 30th November, he brought Lonergan into Skinner Row. There he kept him concealed for upwards of a week, and then succeeded in shipping him for Bristol. From thence he proceeded, unsuspected and uninterrupted, to America, where, under the name of James Fennell, he lived for a considerable time, and supported himself by educational pursuits. His resuscitation was attributed to the rope having been unusually short, to his being swung from the cart without receiving any perpendicular drop, and especially to the incisions in his neck, which produced a copious effusion of blood. Lonergan stated that on being suspended, he immediately lost any sensation of a painful nature. His revival was attended with violent and distressing convulsions.

OLD PRISONS.

Before I proceed to the details of some other narratives, I trust that my readers will not censure me for submitting to their perusal incidents connected with real or imputed crimes, and asking them to accompany me, even in imagination, to prison scenes. There is scarcely a novelist of celebrity that has not frequently introduced his readers to such places, and generally without exciting any repugnance to his description of them, or to the narratives which they supply or the subjects they suggest. Although the prison may disappear and be replaced by other structures, even of a different character, its ideal existence continues, and perhaps outlasts those that arose on its foundations or in its vicinity. In Paris, the Bastille is spoken of as if it still existed. The name is inscribed on omnibusses, and the cab-driver asks no further explanation when ordered to drive "a la Bastille." A house within a short distance of the place where it stood displays on a sign-board a view of the old fortress-prison; and few strangers pass it during the day without pausing to gaze on the picture of a building to which history refers so many fearful incidents, exaggerated nevertheless most enormously by the unscrupulous revolutionists who introduced a "reign of terror" of greater extent, and more sanguinary atrocity, than the records of all the state prisons of France could supply. The Chateau of Vincennes is an existing building; visited more for the memories of the past than for the attractions of the present or the hopes of the future; and few visitors leave it without gazing on the spot where, at midnight, the hapless Duc D'Enghien received the fatal volley and filled an untimely grave. Many prisons in England are associated with local traditions or historical events highly interesting; but the lapse of time and the habitudes of a people exceptionally romantic have deprived them of an extensive popular appreciation. The Tolbooth of Edinburgh and the building of the same designation in Glasgow have derived a lasting fame from the pen of Scott; and whilst the English language exists, the readers of the "Heart of Mid-Lothian" or "Rob Roy" will have the Tolbooths vividly impressed on their imaginations. There are anecdotes connected with the old prisons of Ireland, many of which would afford most ample subjects for the writer of Romance, whilst even their simple details would fully verify the adage that "Fact is stranger than Fiction." I shall now proceed to a narrative which refers to a period more than a century past, but in which, as to names and dates, the crown-office records of the time fully agree with the statements which I have heard from the descendants of some of the most respectable characters connected, but in no discreditable manner, with the circumstances detailed.

There may still be seen on the right hand side of the road leading from Dublin through Mount Brown to Inchicore, a small portion of a granite wall which formerly was in front of "Old Kilmainham," the common gaol of the County of Dublin. That building was considered one of the worst prisons of the kingdom, in consequence of its insufficient size and lax discipline. Swift is said to have been, in his youthful days, a frequent, although not a criminal visitor at this old gaol; and there, perhaps, in the conversation of its inmates, he acquired much of the coarseness and indelicacy which mar the wit and vigor of his productions. I shall, however, most willingly and scrupulously abstain from offering to my readers any specimens of the language of such a time and place, when the building echoed with drunken revelry, and the sufferings of a prisoner were aggravated by indecent buffoonery or ribald jests. To my narrative such expressions are neither necessary nor ornamental.

CHAPTER II. VESEY AND KEOGH.

On the 15th of February, 1743, a gentleman named James Vesey, who held a commission in the army, was returning to Dublin from a southern county where he possessed a respectable landed property. The facilities which now exist for the safe and prompt remittance of money were then almost unknown, and he had with him upwards of eighteen hundred pounds in specie. He was so unfortunate as to be stopped on the road at Castleknock, and robbed of the money, his watch, and its appendages. The highwayman who opened the door of the post-chaise had an associate who kept at the horses' heads, and could not be recognized. After the perpetration of the crime, the traveller proceeded on to Dublin and apprised the authorities of his loss. A vigilant search terminated, after a few days, in the apprehension of two brothers named Martin and Sylvester Keogh. They were men of a sinister reputation, who resided near Rathcoole, and spent more money than they could be supposed to have acquired honestly, being the occupiers of a thatched house of humble dimensions, and a neglected farm of six or seven acres. On being brought before a magistrate, Martin Keogh was fully identified by Mr. Vesey, as the man who, pistol in hand, opened the door of the chaise and despoiled him of his property. Against the other there was no criminating evidence, and after a detention of some days, he was discharged. The closest search after the money terminated unsuccessfully, not a guinea could be found. Martin Keogh was committed for trial at the ensuing commission of Oyer and Terminer for the county of Dublin, and was there convicted of the robbery, on the positive and undoubtedly true testimony of Mr. Vesey. Sentence of death was passed, and the doomed felon became an occupant of the condemned cell at Old Kilmainham, from the dreary precincts of which he was to issue at the end of twenty-one days, to die upon the gallows. Mr. Vesey's leave of absence had been extended until the result of the trial left him free to proceed to England to join his regiment; and he departed from Dublin without any other satisfaction for his eighteen hundred pounds than what might be derived from the impending punishment of the delinquent. He had ample opportunities for seeing Martin Keogh during the preliminary proceedings and in the progress of the trial, and the figure and features of the highwayman remained indelibly impressed on his memory. Soon after Mr. Vesey's arrival in England, he proceeded to encounter the dangers and privations of protracted foreign service; he attained the rank of Captain, and his regiment formed a portion of "the terrible English column" on the memorable field of Fontenoy, the 11th day of May, 1745.

It is unnecessary to introduce here any lengthened or distinct description of the obstinate valor with which the English advanced, thinned, but undismayed, by the concentrated fire of the French artillery, and unbroken by the repeated charges of veteran troops led by the most chivalrous of a gallant nobility. They were not broken until assailed by the Irish Brigade, who rushed upon them with irresistible fury. Then, penetrated and scattered, the column became completely disorganized, and subjected to fearful slaughter by the impetuous Irish and exulting French. Captain Vesey remained on the field of battle. He had been wounded, almost simultaneously, by two balls, and also received a blow from the butt of a musket, which reduced him to a state of utter insensibility.

Louis XV was present at Fontenoy, and in the hour of victory displayed the only virtues which, in his character, were associated with many great vices. He was generous and humane, and at once directed that the wounded English should receive the same care as was bestowed on his own soldiers. Considerable numbers were conveyed to Lille, where surgical skill and the soothing attentions of religious communities and kind-hearted inhabitants effected numerous recoveries. Captain Vesey was soon convalescent. During his illness, several officers of the Irish Brigade forgot he was an enemy, but recollected that he was their gallant and suffering countryman, and from them he experienced the courtesy of gentlemen and the sympathy of friends. Amongst them was the Count de St. Woostan, an officer in the regiment of Berwick, who was acting at Lille in a capacity similar to that of town-major in an English garrison. One evening, at the Count's quarters, the conversation turned on the various incidents of the battle in which they had been so recently engaged, and an officer remarked that Vesey owed his life, in all probability, to a private in Berwick's regiment, who procured assistance to convey him from the field whilst in a state of insensibility, and manifested the utmost anxiety for his preservation. This elicited a very natural remark from Vesey, that it was extraordinary the man had never since approached him, either to evince any satisfaction at his recovery, or to claim a recompense for his services. On further enquiry, he ascertained that the soldier's name was Martin Vaughan, and that he was in the garrison of Lille. On the following day he proceeded, accompanied by the Count, to seek out the man to whom his safety was ascribed, and found that he had been sent, on escort duty, a short distance from the town. The Count, thereupon, left directions for Martin Vaughan to present himself at his quarters on a certain evening. The soldier attended accordingly, and was ushered into the presence of the Count and Captain Vesey, the latter of whom felt inclined to distrust his own senses, when he beheld Martin Keogh, whom he believed to have been, for more than two years, mouldering in a felon's grave. Suddenly, however, the idea occurred that a recognition might be irreparably injurious to the man who had recently rendered him such material service. He felt at once that Keogh's escape from the ignominious fate to which he had been doomed was like an interposition of providence, highly beneficial to both of them. He approached the man and briefly expressed his thanks for the care to which he ascribed his safety. He then tendered him twenty louis d'or, but the gift was at once respectfully declined. The soldier appeared greatly agitated, and exclaimed—"No, Captain Vesey, not a penny of your money will I ever touch again."

The Count remarked the expression, and observed—"Why, Vaughan, it would appear that you have met the captain before you took service with us."

"We have met," said the soldier; "he knows when and where; he will tell you what he knows, but he does not know all. Ye are two gentlemen on whose honor I can rely, and I shall tell you on one condition."

"Excuse me," said the Count, "my curiosity is not so intense as to make me desirous of a confidence disagreeable either to Captain Vesey or to you. You have been a good soldier, in every respect, since you entered the regiment. I have known you only in that capacity. I have no wish to be informed on any previous transaction."

"And I pledge my hand and word," said Vesey, "that I shall never allude to you except as the man to whose humane exertions I am indebted for my life."

He extended his hand to the soldier, who respectfully pressed it between his own, saying—"Let it be so, I am fully satisfied." He saluted the Count and departed.

In about two months after an exchange of prisoners was effected. The Count and Vesey parted with mutual regret and assurances of lasting friendship. A few minutes before they parted, the Count mentioned that he had procured for Vaughan the grade of sergeant. Vaughan asked and was granted an opportunity of bidding the Captain a respectful farewell. The military operations of the English were for some time extensive and diversified; and during eleven years Vesey did not revisit Ireland. He had been in India and in America; and he again became a prisoner to the French in 1756, when the Duc de Richlieu captured Minorca. There he again met with the Count de St. Woostan. Their friendship was renewed, and Vesey, who had attained to the rank of colonel, obtained permission, upon parole, to visit Paris, whither the Count was proceeding with despatches. He casually enquired for Vaughan, and was informed by the Count that soon after their parting at Lille, Vaughan's brother, Sylvester, had arrived from Ireland, and joined the regiment. He was killed at the battle of Raucoux, where Martin was severely wounded, and had consequently become an inmate of the Hotel des Invalides. There Colonel Vesey again saw the man, whose escape from an ignominious death had often occasioned perplexing conjectures to his prosecutor. The old sergeant evinced great pleasure at the Colonel's visit, attended him through the establishment, and having conducted him into one of the arbors, which the veterans of the Invalides have, from the very commencement of the institution, cultivated with peculiar care and taste, he offered the Colonel a seat under an agreeable shade, and requested him to listen to a narration of the escape which had been effected from Old Kilmainham. "I need not now, sir," he added, "ask any condition from you, for the man who arranged the affair is dead. No one can now be injured by the disclosure. I have bitterly mourned the disgraceful act that subjected me to capital punishment, which I only escaped by flying for ever from my native country, and which also led to the loss of my poor brother, whom I persuaded to join in it and some other similar deeds. God knows my heart. I would willingly make restitution of your property, but I shall never possess the means. It was a great consolation that I was able to do you a little service after Fontenoy, and I felt a certain happiness in receiving your forgiveness when we parted at Lille."

"My good friend," said the Colonel, "as to the affair at Castleknock, I would wish you never to mention it again. I have, however, a great curiosity to know how you managed to avoid the fate which, to say the truth, I thought you had undergone."

"We took the money, sir," said Martin, "and placed it in a strong canvas bag. We hid it in neither house, garden, nor field, but in a deep part of the river Liffey, below the Salmon Leap. There was a stout cord from the bag to a heavy weight, so that it might be easily caught by a drag. Well, I was convicted and sentenced, and there were four others condemned at the same Commission, and we were all to be executed on the same day. One was a forger, and three were housebreakers. We each occupied a separate cell in the condemned yard. It was a horrible place, for I well recollect that on each side of the yard a full length figure of Death was painted,[1] holding in his skeleton hands a scythe and hour-glass; so that wherever our eyes turned, we were reminded of our hapless condition and coming sufferings. The gaoler came in two or three times daily, whilst our cells were open, and I soon remarked that he took very little notice of the others, but spoke pretty often to me. On the fifth or sixth day after my sentence, I was in my cell, counting my days, and trying to count my hours; making pictures in my despairing mind of the cart and the crowd, and cringing as if I already felt the slippery noose of the soaped halter closing round the creeping flesh of my neck; thinking of the happy days of innocent childhood, and feeling some consolation in my misery that my brother had not been condemned; that I left no wife or family, and that both my parents were dead, and spared the shame and sorrow of their son's public execution. This was the state of my mind when the gaoler entered the cell. He closed the door, and addressed some kind expressions to me, hoping that I was resigned to the great change that was impending, and enquiring if he could do anything for my comfort or consolation. In a stout but low tone I replied, that I would rather get rid of the business without being hanged at all. He closed the door, and sat down on the block-stool, and we remained silent for a few minutes; but there were looks passing between us; we were reading each other's hearts. At length he said—'Have you the money?'

"'It is safe, every guinea of it,' I replied, 'but useless to me and to every one else, if I am to stay here for the few remaining days of my life. Moreover, I could not give it all, for there would be very little use in going out of the prison if I had not the means of going far and going fast; but I have fifteen hundred pounds for a friend, who would be a real friend.'

"'Mr. Vesey is gone,' said the gaoler, 'we are perfectly secure from any observation or interference on his part; I am running a great risk, but I shall try the chance. I am, I admit, in great want of money. Give me fifteen hundred pounds, and I will allow your brother to pass through my rooms to the top of the prison, and to bring a rope ladder with him. He can descend into the yard, and there he will find a key in the door of your cell; this can be done at twelve to-morrow night; and you may be far away before nine the following morning. Your brother will be here to see you by-and-by, you can arrange with him, but there is no time to be lost.'

"'My brother,' I replied, 'shall have nothing to do with the business, except to bring the money, I shall not cross the wall, I must go out by the door, I must be let out, or stay until I am disposed of along with the rest.'

"'It is impossible,' said the gaoler.

"'It is not impossible,' I replied, 'but very easy, if you can get a little assistance. I must be sick, very sick; fever, gaol fever, is to be my complaint; I must die, and be sent out in a coffin.'

"'No,' said he, 'there must be a real corpse. I think it can be managed, but I cannot have more than a thousand pounds for myself, the remainder of the money must be divided between two other persons, on whose co-operation I feel certain that I can fully rely.'

"We agreed upon the plan, and for several days I was really sick, made so by artificial means—spirits, laudanum, tobacco, and other things were used in various ways. Half of the stipulated sum was brought by my brother, and paid to the gaoler in the condemned cell. The other men were removed to another part of the building. At length I died, you understand; and on that night a corpse was introduced into my cell by the gaoler himself. It was of my size, and was procured from the neighbouring burial ground of the Hospital fields, vulgarly termed Bully's Acre; but unlike the generality of such disinterments, it was to go back there again, and to be buried in my name. I was informed that there would be an inquest on me; but as I had died of putrid, spotted fever of the most infectious description, it was not likely that the coroner or the jury would view my body, unless at the greatest possible distance. I assisted the gaoler to arrange the supposed corpse of myself, placing the face to the wall, and then I was quietly let out upon the high road, after having paid the balance of the fifteen hundred pounds. My brother who had brought the money, was in waiting, but we soon separated. He thought it would prevent suspicion being raised if he attended the funeral of my substitute; and I set out on foot, taking the road to Wicklow, and stopping in the morning to have a little rest and refreshment at Loughlinstown. About the time of my funeral, I was passing Coolagad, near Delgany, and was alarmed by a pack of hounds crossing the road close to where I was walking. There were some riders following them whom I knew, but they were too much engaged in the sport to think about, or even to look at me. I proceeded by Wicklow and Arklow to Wexford, and there I got a passage to Jersey. From that island I was taken by a smuggler to St. Malo, on the supposition that I was extremely anxious to join the Irish Brigade. My life was now safe from the hangman, but I had much trouble and suffering to encounter. I was suspected of being a spy, although I could not speak a word of French; and the possession of some of your guineas was a great crime in the eyes of those who wished to get them for themselves. At Chartres I met a fellow-countryman, who was in Berwick's regiment, and at his instance I enlisted to get rid of the annoyance I was suffering, and to avoid the poverty which I saw approaching, and which was certain to overtake a stranger, whose only resource was military service. I took, on enlisting, the name of Vaughan, which was that of my mother's family. I have again to express my deep sorrow for the wrongful act I committed, and I hope you will never regret that I was not hanged."

Colonel Vesey parted with Martin Keogh, alias Vaughan, in the kindest manner, and was soon after enabled to proceed to England. His military career was terminated by a wound at the capture of Quebec, in 1761, which incapacitated him for further service: he died at Bath in 1776. The Count de St. Woostan accompanied the gallant but much calumniated Lally-Tollendahl to India. He possessed his confidence, shared in his dangers and subsequent persecutions, but eventually, freed from every imputation, restored to the rank and emoluments of colonel, he died at Amboise, in 1782. His name was Alen, and he belonged to a family which, located at St. Woolstans, near Celbridge, in the county of Kildare, occupied high position in Ireland previous to the reign of Elizabeth, and from a collateral branch of which the ducal Howards of Norfolk derive the additional name of Fitzalen.

Martin Vaughan married, in 1758, a blanchisseuse de fin, who had a comfortable dwelling and profitable business in the Rue de Bellechase, Paris. His name disappears from the register of the Invalides, in 1769. His escape from Old Kilmainham protracted his existence twenty-six years. It was effected by means which would not be practicable in any prison of the British Empire at the present time. Officials have become more respectable, and their integrity is protected from temptation by the intervention of a vigilant superintending authority, unknown at the period to which the foregoing narrative refers. It will, in all probability, occur to the reader that the two persons whose co-operation the gaoler considered as indispensable in effecting the escape of Martin Keogh, were the coroner of the county and the medical officer of the prison. Such a conclusion is almost inevitable. Still, a similar project could not now be accomplished by a similar combination. There have been, however, some inquests held in the same county (Dublin) which seriously compromised the coroner of the time and the medical man habitually employed by him, but none of them originated in a prison. It is right to state that they occurred anterior to the appointment of the present coroners and of their respective immediate predecessors. I shall recur to them in a subsequent page or two, when I come to the narration of some extraordinary incidents entirely within my personal knowledge and recollection. As yet I have placed no female character prominently before my readers. I shall proceed to introduce one; and however I may distrust my own powers of description, I feel that the mere facts which I shall detail will not prove uninteresting, especially as they refer to her whom I may term the heroine of the story.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] This gratuitous cruelty did not cease when Old Kilmainham was taken down. Similar disgusting figures have been seen by me, on the door and walls of the condemned yard, in the present county gaol.—F. T. P.

CHAPTER III. MARY TUDOR.

Longevity, although desired by almost all human beings, is a subject of contemplation to very few. We attach, in general, a greater interest to an aged tree or an antique building, than to a venerable individual whose life may connect with the present time the stirring period of the American war of Independence or the awful period of the French Revolution. It is, perhaps, better for ourselves that as we attain old age we should meet with respect and care, without being sought as close companions by our juniors: we thus become habituated to think more on those who have gone before us, and of our own approach to that solemn moment which is to quench the socket-glimmer of earthly existence. Nevertheless, we occasionally meet with some whose mental faculties have not yielded to the attacks of time, in proportion to the effects produced by his inexorable hand upon the corporeal frame, and whose society is sought by many who observe that they can, even in the years of senectude, revert to their early days, and seek to enjoy the pleasures of memory by detailing to others the scenes through which they have passed, and the points of character they have noted. Such a person I can truly designate my father to have been. His frame was robust, and his general health very good, even after he had attained to fourscore years. Accident had rendered him lame, but his mind and memory were strong, and his disposition affable. Whilst he perfectly recollected the past, he evinced a warm interest in the present; and almost immediately after the opening of the Great Southern and Western Railway of Ireland, he sped from Dublin to Cork and back, merely to contrast the five hours' performance of the "Iron Horse" with the four days' journey of his early years. It was a great gratification to him to take a slow drive through Dublin, and recount to his companions, of whom I was generally one, the former appearance of places, and the habits and peculiarities of their occupiers; but no part of the city called forth his recollections more strongly than the locality of Christ Church Place. He never mentioned it by its present name; with him it continued "Skinner Row;" and it was no small pleasure to him to remark that the house in which he had lived and prospered at the beginning of the present century, was still remaining, whilst the entire of the opposite side of the "Row" had disappeared. He regretted the change even whilst he admitted the advantage of the alteration; but he could not refrain from reinstating in his imagination, and describing, the narrow-fronted houses within eighteen feet of the opposite dwellings, rising to a height which effectually precluded even half-an-hour's sunshine from reaching the thoroughfare. His mind reverted to the former tenants, jewellers, silversmiths, and booksellers, by which trades the "Row" had been monopolized; and it was more agreeable to him to recollect Dick Tudor, Tom Delancy, Jemmy Wilson, and many others, cleaning their windows and sweeping their shops, than to remark that such avocations, in the present day, had ceased to be incumbent on even the junior apprentices, and had devolved upon menial servants.

One evening he was enjoying the society of two or three convivial friends. He had taken a drive that day, accompanied by me, and had halted so long in Christ Church Place, that the hackney carmen might almost have suspected that he meditated an invasion of their stand. He enjoyed his drive and his dinner, and having attained to his second glass of whiskey-punch, he commenced, at the instance of his companions, the narration of one of his "Skinner Row" reminiscences.

Dick Tudor was a goldsmith and jeweller. He had the reputation of being the wealthiest man in the locality. He neither lent nor borrowed. His intercourse with his neighbours was very limited. He was a widower, and had an only child, of whom he was excessively fond. His tastes were in his business; he had a love for his art, and would execute a beautiful design for a smaller comparative profit than would satisfy him for second-hand plate or mere repairs; but his affections excluded every other worldly object, and were concentrated in his daughter, Mary Tudor.

She was about eighteen years of age at the time to which the commencement of the narrative refers, and although reared in a city, was as simple and unaffected in her manner as if her life had previously been passed on mountain heather or in mossy dell. She was a brunette of perfect features, and small but symmetrical figure. Her disposition appeared to be gay, and almost puerile, and none would suppose that in a trader's daughter, whose jocund smile and sparkling eyes seemed to seek and spread mirth around her, there was a latent intensity of feeling, and a determination of character, worthy of the noblest cause or of the highest lineage.

Skinner Row had its attachments, jealousies, and little diplomacies as fully as ever they existed even in more important localities. In one respect, it possessed a material for civic intrigue greater than could be found in any other part of Dublin in the last century. The Row commanded, in the Common Council, one seat for the Stationers' Guild, and two for the Goldsmiths. As to those objects of ambition, there was a certain fixed understanding—there should be no division outside their own precincts, and the members chosen should be men of the Row. Amongst themselves, intrigues, insinuations, or open opposition might be freely practised; but once they had determined on the man to be supported, every vote should go to him. Dick Tudor and James Wilson were the goldsmiths chosen for the Common Council, and the distinction thus conferred excited great envy in the mind of Tom Delancy, whose discontent was kept fully alive by his son, not on account of civic honours, but because young Christian Wilson had contrived to stand between him and the sun in the rays of which he wished to bask, namely, the eyes of pretty Mary Tudor.

Old Tudor and James Wilson were friends, not very intimate, but perhaps liking and respecting each other more on that account. Tudor's daughter and Christian Wilson were lovers, and the infrequency of their meetings only rendered their occasional interviews more delectable. The neighbours observed the attachment of the young people before their parents suspected its existence; but the moment Tudor perceived a preference evinced by his daughter for young Wilson, he sedulously endeavoured to prevent all future communications between them. He became suddenly anxious that Mary should visit some relatives in the County of Wexford, about whom he had for years expressed no interest. He thought change of air would materially serve her health, although no other eye could notice the slightest indication of illness, or even delicacy of constitution. Accompanied by an elderly female attendant, she left Dublin by a conveyance termed Good's Long Coach, which the proprietor, William Good, advertised as the perfection of cheap and expeditious travelling. It left the Ram Inn, Aungier Street, Dublin, on each Monday morning, at an early hour, so as to ensure reaching Wicklow town on the succeeding night. Tuesday saw the vehicle achieve a further progress to Gorey, and on Wednesday evening it reached Wexford. It returned to Dublin in the three succeeding days, and thus enabled the public to have a cheap, safe, and comfortable communication, to and fro, between two places about ninety English miles asunder, within the short space of six days.

Three or four weeks elapsed, and Tudor mentioned, in answer to some kind enquiries, that Mary was enjoying herself wonderfully at Kilmore, in the County of Wexford, and that she had written him a very interesting description of the Saltee Islands, St. Patrick's Bridge, and the Lady's Island. She was very comfortable with a worthy cousin and his wife, both arrived at an age which made them appreciate a life of quietude. They were very kind to her, and they had no family or nearer relations than himself and Mary. Her visit was likely to lead to considerable advantages. He would never have disclosed his daughter's temporary residence if he had not believed Kilmore to be as difficult of access to Christian Wilson as Madeira or Malta would be to a gallant of the present time. The lover was a youth of very peculiar character—clever and active, but rash and inconsiderate. Having ascertained that the smacks which traded between Wexford and Dublin, if favoured by a fair wind, could make the run in a few hours, he determined on seeing Mary Tudor. His father had allowed him as a perquisite the profits arising from making "balloon guineas" into rings, and he had thereby acquired a few pounds, as it was a very prevalent custom for females of the humbler classes to invest a guinea in a ring, and carry their money on their fingers. Savings-banks were then unknown.

Christian informed his father that he wished to go, for a few days, to a friend in Drogheda, and obtained his consent. He left home in the evening, ostensibly to go by the mail, but he sojourned to Hoey's Court, and was seen there in company with some young men whose characters were unknown, or worse. They left Hoey's Court about ten o'clock, and Wilson betook himself to Sir John's Quay, and went out of the river in the smack "Selskar," of Wexford, on the night-tide. After midnight Dick Tudor's workshop was robbed; but the guilty parties did not all escape. Two were apprehended leaving the premises, and were recognised as having been seen in Christian Wilson's company in Hoey's Court for some time after his own father supposed him to have left Dublin for Drogheda. A letter was posted to the latter place, and, to old Wilson's astonishment, he received a reply that his son had not gone there. Where was he?

Whispered malice is most intense. Delancy and his son added assertion to suspicion, and revelled in the idea of a broken-hearted father, and a disgraced, degraded son, being forced by the awkward circumstances, magnified and industriously disseminated, to abandon, one, the coveted representation of the Goldsmiths' Guild, and the other, the pursuit in which all the affections of his heart and the energies of his mind were concentrated—the love of Mary Tudor.

In a few days Christian Wilson returned to Dublin. His father's reproaches were fierce and unmeasured, and became a perfect storm of rage when the young man refused to state where he had been, or for what purpose he had left home. Old Tudor aggravated the quarrel between the father and son, by accusing them of a design to entrap his daughter into a clandestine union, to which James Wilson replied that he would sooner transport his son than consent to his marriage with Tudor's daughter. The circumstances of the robbery were fully investigated. They did not directly inculpate Christian; but enough appeared to sully his reputation, and to prove that he was not sufficiently guarded in his associations. Old Delancy expressed his good-natured regret that the son of one "Wainscot man"[2] should be strongly suspected of robbing another. Young Delancy, with affected benevolence, expressed his sincere gratification that Christian had not been caught; and there were not wanting some kind-hearted individuals to convey his observations to the unhappy subject of them. The young men casually met in Christ Church yard; an explanation was demanded; and the demand was answered by the sneering remark, that the affair explained itself. Christian was maddened by his rival's taunts, and gave Delancy a fearful beating. A blow or fall produced concussion of the brain. The assailant had to fly; and his father determined to send him, banished and unforgiven, to the West Indies, consigning him to the care of a relative who had been for several years in Barbadoes.

Mary Tudor received a letter written at Liverpool, and announcing the immediate departure of Christian Wilson for his tropical destination. In it he simply stated the circumstances which led to his expatriation, and renewed his vows to her of deep affection and fidelity. The young woman at once determined on departing from Kilmore; and on her arrival in Dublin placed Christian's letter in her father's hands. She insisted on the examination of the master and crew of the Selskar; and they proved that they dropped down the river with Christian on board, two hours before the time of the robbery. But this was not all. The guilty parties confessed that the young man was not with them, and accounted for having sought his society in Hoey's Court, for the purpose of eliciting some information as to Tudor's premises into which they were desirous of effecting an entrance. Young Delancy had recovered. Tudor and James Wilson had been reconciled; but Christian had sailed in the ship "Hyacinth," of Liverpool, and he must see Barbadoes before he can become aware of Mary's truth and her determined exertions to remove all aspersions from her lover's character.

The "Hyacinth" never reached her destined port. Her fate was conjectured, but was not ascertained, as it would be in the present time of superior arrangements in agency and communication. Her owners received their insurance as for a total loss, and James Wilson believed that his hapless son had been entombed in the ocean.

At the commencement of the war between England and her revolted colonies of North America, two commissioners were sent out, in the hope that differences might be reconciled and peace restored. The Earl of Carlisle and Mr. Eden (afterwards Lord Auckland) were proceeding on this mission in a frigate, and after having encountered very stormy weather, they fell in with a boat in which were several persons, reduced to the utmost extremity by hunger and fatigue. They were rescued, and recovered their strength by rest and nutrition. All, except one, were sailors, and they were, perhaps very summarily, added to the frigate's crew. The landsman was of a melancholy temperament, although young and naturally strong. He was, however, of an humble and unpresuming manner, which did not indicate vulgarity or ignorance. He expressed a desire to make himself useful, cleaned some watches for the officers, and kept the plate of their mess in proper order. Curiosity induced Lord Carlisle to accost him, and the communication resulted in several acts of kindness on the part of the nobleman, which were respectfully and gratefully, and perhaps it may be said, gracefully, received. His Lordship's interest in the poor shipwrecked fellow increased; and on their arrival in America, he obtained for his protégé, from Sir Henry Clinton, an ensigncy in the army.

Meanwhile Christian Wilson was forgotten in Skinner Row by all except one. They had "mourned him dead in his father's house." His family never adverted to his fate, for the subject was of painful recollection in more senses than one. But Mary Tudor, although she seldom spoke of Christian, would not admit that he was dead. Suitors for her hand were numerous, but to none would she give the slightest encouragement, and Delancy soon discovered that indifference was too mild a term to describe her feeling towards him. Some years had passed. Her father had attained complete senectude, but was still sound in mind and hale in body. He lived happily with his daughter, who consulted his wishes on every subject, except his anxiety to see her married in comfort and respectability before he died. She had attained to her twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth year, and she was particularly intimate with the family of the person from whom this narrative is derived. In fact, it was her only intimacy, and in her intercourse with them she frequently avowed her conviction that the "lost one" would return.

One morning a note was received by my father, requesting him to call, as soon as possible, on the writer, at the Queen's Head Hotel in Bride Street. He repaired to the place appointed; and in consequence of what there occurred, he had interviews next morning with Richard Tudor and James Wilson, and prevailed on them to accompany him to Cork Hill, about 11.30 a.m., and there he pointed out to the astonished and delighted old men Captain Christian Wilson, of the 60th Regiment, marching his company to relieve the guard at Dublin Castle.

The tale concludes. The lovers met and were united. Old Tudor was rich; his closing years were happy. Wilson retired from the army after he had attained the rank of Major, and settled on a property in a southern county, where the descendants of him and Mary Tudor are living in independence and respectability.

This narrative has been closely criticised. It has been asked, Did the hero of the tale keep his very existence concealed so long, and why? Suspicions have been expressed that the lovers had some communication or correspondence. Whatever conjectures may be entertained, they need not be canvassed here. The reader may form his own opinion. Much was said on the subject, and something was even sung. The following verses are a portion of a lyric attributed to a Mr. Rooney, a basket-maker in Fishamble Street. The Tholsel guard, to the somnolent tendencies of which an allusion is made, were in number about a dozen. They were dressed in blue with orange facings, and armed with pole-axes. An alderman of the time sarcastically described them as "selected for their age and infirmities, and not required to be awake unless at their meals."

"Some folk averr'd a bird was heard

To Mary's casement nigh;

And from its throat there thrill'd the note,

He's coming by-and-by.

"Some said there came, with war-worn frame,

A vet'ran grenadier,

Who spoke of one that led him on

Through battle's fierce career.

"Some said between them both had been

Of love notes not a few,

But this was clear, he did appear,

And wed his maiden true.

"Through Skinner Row the toast must go,

And our cheers reach Christ Church Yard,

Till its vaults profound send back the sound,

To waken the Tholsel guard.

"Here's to their health in peace and wealth;

May Death, that bold intruder,

A long while pause ere he lays his claws

On such as Mary Tudor."

FOOTNOTE:

[2] In the old "Tholsel" or Guildhall of Dublin, members who had served the office of Sheriff, or who represented the Guild of Merchants, occupied the centre of the Council chamber. The members representing incorporated trades sat next the wainscot. They had the reputation of being the most independent members of the Corporation.

CHAPTER IV. THE BIRTH OF A WORD—A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION—THE HONOR OF KNIGHTHOOD.

I have mentioned in the narrative respecting Lonergan, that my father was a member of the corps of Dublin Volunteers, and that he was serjeant of the grenadier company. Many of his comrades were living within my memory, and I could name five or six who derived great gratification from reverting to the period when the citizen soldiers of Ireland were enrolled in thousands for the purpose of resisting an invasion which was threatened by the French. The reviews, parades, and convivial associations of the Volunteers afforded many agreeable recollections; and I have heard from different narrators the same account of what may be termed the birth of a word which originated in Eustace Street, Dublin, upon the same day that ushered into this breathing world the oldest and highest of rank amongst the Irish nobility.[3] I indulge in a hope that my readers may consider the circumstances under which a word was added to our language as curious or interesting, especially when they are apprised that it was not taken from any other language, ancient or modern, and yet it has become ubiquitous.

On the 21st of August, 1791, news had arrived in Dublin that Her Grace the Duchess of Leinster had given birth to a young Marquis of Kildare. To all ranks of society the intelligence was welcome, but especially to the Volunteers. The Duke was the general of that force in his province, but his own corps, of which he was colonel, was the Dublin one. Along with the announcement of the accouchement of the Duchess, came an intimation, that the corps would be expected at Carton on the happy occasion of the christening. The opportunity for paying a compliment to their commander was hailed by the citizen-soldiers with the utmost enthusiasm, and there was a numerous gathering of them, to learn the particulars and to consider their arrangements, at a tavern in Eustace Street, Dublin, kept by a person named Bennett, and known as "The Eagle." The evening had, as might be expected, a convivial termination. Several who had attained to high civic dignities were amongst those assembled; and there was also present Richard Daly, the proprietor and manager of the Smock Alley theatre, who had an extraordinary propensity for making wagers in reference to incidental matters, however unimportant. In the course of the evening some casual opinions were expressed on the histrionic powers of an actor named Sparkes, who was then drawing immense houses in Daly's theatre. One of the Volunteers, named Delahoyde, expressed his surprise that such crowds should run after Sparkes, and remarked that his popularity was more the result of fashionable caprice than of histrionic merits. "He is, in my opinion," added the speaker, "just what the French would term un fagotin." "And what is the exact meaning of that word?" asked Alderman Moncrieffe. "There is, perhaps, no one word in the English Language which conveys its meaning exactly," said the interrogated party. "If I could give an English word to signify a low, vulgar mountebank, I should not have employed the French term." "Then," observed Daly, "why do you not make a word and send it into circulation? You should not feel aware that our language was deficient in expression without being charitable enough to supply its want, especially as it costs nothing to make a word." "But," rejoined the other, "how could I ensure the reception of a word into general use? It might be characterized as slang, or remain unnoticed and unadopted; it might be as difficult to obtain currency for a word, or more so, than it was to pass Wood's halfpence."

"Dick," said Alderman Moncrieffe, "suppose you try your own hand, as you think the matter so easy. I would leave it to your own ingenuity, but I fear you will find it very difficult to induce the public to take your word. If they took some of your assurance it might be an advantage; you have plenty to spare."

"I thank you, Alderman," replied Daly. "I did not suppose that so much wit could come from the neighbourhood of the Tholsel."

"Oh!" said Moncrieffe, "it has strayed up to us from the theatre, where it has lately become scarce. But, Dick, why have you chatted so long on this and other subjects this evening without offering a single wager? Come now, start a bet."

"I shall not use a phrase or make a word," said Daly, "in disparagement of Sparkes, from whom I have derived much pleasure and profit; but I shall bet you twenty guineas, and I propose our friend and captain, who is also your brother alderman, I propose John Carleton as the judge or arbitrator between us, that within forty-eight hours there shall be a word in the mouths of the Dublin public, of all classes and sexes, young and old; and also that within a week, the same public shall attach a definite and generally adopted meaning to that word, without any suggestion or explanation from me. I also undertake, as essential to the wager, that my word shall be altogether new and unconnected with any derivation from another language, ancient or modern. Now, Alderman, what say you to taking my word or winning my money?"

"I shall not take your word, Dick, but I propose winning some of your money. I shall put five guineas in the wager, provided the present company take up the balance, and let the winnings be spent on the evening of the first parade day after our return from the christening of the young Marquis of Kildare."

The company were joyous, and the proposal of the appropriation of the proceeds to festivity induced a speedy acceptance of the remaining liability. The terms were reduced to writing, and deposited with Carleton. Daly looked at his watch and took his departure. It happened to be a Saturday evening, and he reached the theatre a short time before the termination of the performance. He immediately procured some lumps of chalk, and a dozen or two of cards. Upon each of the cards he wrote a word. It was short and distinct, and at the fall of the curtain he required the attendance of the call-boys, scene-shifters, and other inferior employés of the concern. To each of them he gave a card and a piece of chalk, and directed them to perambulate the city until daybreak, chalking the word upon the doors and shutters of the houses. His directions were diligently obeyed, and on the Sunday morning the doors of shops, warehouses, and even private dwellings appeared to have one word conspicuously chalked on them. The timid were alarmed, lest it indicated some unlawful or hostile intention, but these apprehensions were dissipated by the fact of its universal appearance. One, as he issued from his dwelling, conceived that it was meant for a nick-name for him; but he immediately changed his opinion on seeing it on his neighbour's premises also. It could not be political, for all parties were treated the same way. It was manifestly not a mark on any religious persuasion, for all denominations were chalked alike. It was not belonging to any known language, nor could a word of any meaning be formed by the transposition of its letters. Still the universality of its appearance excited the curiosity of all, and formed a subject for public conjecture and general conversation. After a few days the general conclusion was, that the word was a hoax, a trick, a humbug, a joke. However, it was not forgotten. The parties to the wager, which Dick Daly was adjudged to have won, have all disappeared, but I have heard several of them narrate the particulars as I have stated them. The hands by which the word was chalked have all mouldered into clay, but the term that owed its birth to the Eustace Street wager has become almost ubiquitous. It is heard in India, Australia, the United States, Canada, or the Cape; in fact, wherever the English language is spoken. The word is Quiz.

It may not be inopportune to mention here that I related the foregoing account of the origin of the word "quiz" one day in, I think, the year 1832, at the table of Cornelius Lyne, the facetious and convivial barrister of the Munster Circuit, where he was designated, in contradistinction to the old Irish chieftain, "Con of the hundred battles," "Con of the hundred bottles." Amongst the guests was a gentleman named Montgomery, who resided in Belfast. On hearing my story, he remarked that a quiz has occasionally produced a reality. He proceeded to tell us that when James Madison was President of the United States, a young man connected with one of the most eminent houses in Belfast, thought fit to make an American tour. Having crossed the Atlantic, he passed upwards of eighteen months to his perfect satisfaction. On his return he was greatly pestered by one of his fellow-townsmen, a pushing, plausible, self-sufficient kind of fellow, for letters of introduction to some American friends, the applicant declaring his intention of visiting all the principal cities of the Union. At length the solicited party replied to an urgent entreaty, by declaring that there was no one with whom he felt himself warranted to take such a liberty except his friend Madison. "The President!" exclaimed the importunate teaser; "why it would be invaluable." Acceding to his request, a letter was written commencing with "My dear Mr. Madison," and conveying the assurance, that the attentions which the writer had received would never be forgotten, and that the recollection of such kindness emboldened him to introduce a friend, in the hope that he would be received with even a portion of that urbanity which had been experienced so agreeably, and remembered so gratefully, by his ever faithful and obliged, &c., &c. The traveller departed, and a considerable time elapsed before he reappeared in Belfast. When he returned, his first visit was to the author of the valuable introduction. "My dear friend," said he, "I presented your letter at a public reception. The President was more than polite, he was extremely cordial. I was invited to several delightful parties, and received the utmost attention. It was, however, very extraordinary, that when I called to pay my farewell visit, he asked me several questions in reference to your personal appearance, remarking that you had lapsed from his recollection." This was not so very surprising, for the President had never seen the man whose letter of introduction for the other had been a thorough quiz. At the conclusion of the anecdote which my narrative had elicited from Mr. Montgomery, Tom Moylan, Mr. Lyne's nephew, contributed another. He remarked that the Belfast man had only quizzed a President, but a Dublin man had completely humbugged a king. When George the Fourth was reigning, a Dublin medical doctor wrote a book. He had a copy splendidly bound for presentation, and then went to London, to the royal levee, where he handed a card to the lord-in-waiting, on which his name appeared as attending to present his work on a certain professional subject, and to receive the honor of knighthood. The lord-in-waiting thought that all was right; the king thought so, too. The Dublin doctor knelt down, the king took a sword gave him the slap of dignity, and bade him arise Sir Thomas ——. After the levee, and when the newspapers had published the knighthood as one of the incidents of the day, there were some enquiries about the recipient of the distinction. Who had recommended him? Of what minister was he the protegè? But they were all too late, the knighthood had been conferred. People could only laugh. Canning was reported to have said, that he supposed the doctor claimed the honor by prescription. Although I was not personally acquainted with the medical knight who was the subject of Tom Moylan's anecdote, I have a perfect recollection of him for several years before he was dubbed a "Sir." He resided in St. Peter's parish, Dublin, and was very prominent in the old agitation times antecedent to Catholic Emancipation. At the vestries there could not be a rate or cess proposed to which he had not an amendment or direct negative to offer. On one occasion, at a very crowded parochial meeting, he complained to Archdeacon Torrens, who was presiding, that the vestry-room was too limited a place for such an important discussion as that in which they were engaged. "I move, reverend sir," said he, "that we adjourn to the Churchyard." "My dear doctor," replied the archdeacon, very quaintly, "you will have us there time enough."

FOOTNOTE:

[3] These expressions refer to the late Duke of Leinster, who has died since I wrote them.—F. T. P.

CHAPTER V. A MILLIONAIRE.

I shall revert to old Skinner Row in reference to the career of an individual which may be said to have commenced there about the year 1782. The incidents which I shall detail are not of an amatory or very sentimental nature, but nevertheless, truly extraordinary. To a Dublin, or even an Irish reader, it is unnecessary to offer an assurance of their truth, or to mention the individual's name. Only one error in reference to him has had currency, and that to a very limited extent. It arose, in all probability, from envy or malice, and consisted in describing him as a person of very imperfect education, of plebeian manners and disposition, and of almost menial avocations. He might have been truly described as well-informed, unaffectedly courteous, unobtrusive of his own opinions, and tolerant of the opinions of others, whilst his business transactions were marked by diligence, integrity, and intelligence. The proprietor of a very extensive establishment in a central situation in Dublin, where bookselling and auctions of libraries were carried on, had advertised for an assistant; and the situation attracted the attention of many competitors, of whom the individual alluded to was one. He was young and active, and sought a personal interview with Mr. V. the advertiser. He was informed that the latter had gone up to Skinner Row, to my father's house, where he would be engaged for upwards of an hour. The applicant hurried off to the narrow, crowded, and inconvenient locality. The footway was disproportionally raised above the carriage road, and at the very door of the house to which he was going, he accidentally slipped and fell. In a disabled condition, he was raised and carried in, and it was ascertained that his ankle was dislocated. His sufferings excited great sympathy. He was conveyed to a bedroom, and surgical aid was procured. Mr. V. manifested great interest in the young man, and came frequently to see him. After several weeks elapsed his cure was effected, and the situation which he sought was given to him. He expressed the deepest gratitude to my father for the kindness he had experienced, and the acquaintance which commenced in the painful accident referred to, ripened ultimately into a very close intimacy. He gained the confidence of Mr. V., who conferred many marks of his esteem, and on the retirement of that gentleman from business, he became, to a great extent, his successor. All his undertakings prospered, and he acquired the reputation of being extremely wealthy. A rumour was circulated that, between the leaves of some books which he had purchased, he had found several bank notes of considerable value, but that report was groundless. In addition to extensive bookselling, he had formed a connection with the house of Bish and Co., of Cornhill, by which he was enabled to do a profitable business in bills on London amongst the Dublin traders, for at that time the facilities of letters of credit were very little known. He also dealt largely in the tickets and shares of the State Lotteries which, three or four times in the year, stimulated the community into legalized gambling. One evening in the year 1794, my father had occasion to call upon him, and found him unusually dissatisfied. He said that Bish's people had made a great mistake in sending him several whole tickets instead of quarters, eighths, or sixteenths, and that three tickets had been left on his hands, involving a loss of sixty pounds. There was not sufficient time to communicate with London before the drawing day, and he could only warn them against committing a similar error on the next occasion. However, in about a week after, my father ascertained that the mistake had eventuated in one of the tickets turning out a prize for twenty thousand pounds. Bish was no longer censured by the man whose wealth, previously considerable, had received a great and unexpected augmentation. The writer of fiction would hesitate before he would adopt a young man lying on the flagway of a city in which he was a complete stranger, with a dislocated ankle, as the material for a future millionaire. The person to whom this narrative refers was not English, Irish, or Scotch. He was a Manxman, who left his native island to seek in Dublin, what he most completely found, a fortune. He died a member of Parliament for an Irish county. Three of his sons attained to similar positions, and one of them was elevated to the House of Peers. Their positions were honourably and worthily acquired.

CHAPTER VI. THE SHIP STREET DIAMOND—SECOND-HAND PLATE—THE SILVER SLAB—LAW'S WINDOW—OLD NEWGATE.

I have already mentioned that old Skinner Row contained a considerable number of establishments belonging to goldsmiths and jewellers. Pre-eminent amongst them was one kept, in the early part of the present century, by Matthew West, who realised an ample fortune there, and attained to high civic distinctions in Dublin. His concern was celebrated for an extensive assortment of jewelry, and for the tasteful and correct execution of orders specially relative to the setting of precious stones. When such were brought to be cleaned, arranged, or set, the owner was required to state the value which he attached to the property, and to sign such statement on the back of the receipt given for the articles. Mr. West gave considerable employment, especially in gem-setting, to a man named Delandre, who occupied the upper part of a house in Great Ship Street, in front of the ground on which the church of St. Michael le Pole formerly stood, and over the yard of which the windows of his working-room opened. A narrow passage led from the street under the house to a building in the rere, and a high wall separated this passage from the old cemetery. The top of the wall was thickly studded with broken glass, to prevent trespasses. In the year 1811, a gentleman called on Mr. West, and produced a diamond to which he attached considerable value, and which he wished to have set in a peculiar style. His order was taken, and a receipt was given for the stone, with an endorsement of its value at £950. Delandre was sent for, and received the diamond, with directions for the setting, and with an injunction to be expeditious. He took it to his work-room, and, the weather being very warm, the window close to his bench had been opened. He was using heavy pressure of the diamond against the material in which it was to be set, when either the tool or the gem slipped, and the latter flew out of the opened window. Instantly alarming his family, he watched the passage and the yard until means were adopted to prevent the entrance of any strangers. Then the passage was swept, and the sweepings were sifted. The surface of the old cemetery, for a considerable space, was similarly treated, the top of the wall was brushed carefully, and a tombstone in which a fissure was observed was raised and examined; but all the searching was fruitless. Finally, Delandre had to betake himself to Mr. West, and communicate the disastrous loss of the valuable jewel. Extraordinary as was the statement, Mr. West did not discredit the workman, in whose probity he placed great confidence. He undertook to afford constant employment to Delandre and to his son, but stipulated that an insurance should be effected on the life of the former, and that weekly deductions should be made from their earnings, so as to provide for the premium on the insurance policy, and form a reserve for the value of the diamond. Delandre scrupulously observed his engagements. He had full employment from West, and although he was working, as he termed it, "for a dead horse," he kept his hands busy and his heart light. Each year lessened his liabilities, and at length, having paid for the diamond, he received an assignment of the policy of insurance, for the ultimate benefit of his family. He had grown old and rather feeble, but still, in conjunction with his son, attended industriously to his trade. Mr. West had died, and I, who had been a schoolboy when the diamond was lost, had become a magistrate of the Head Police Court of Dublin. In my younger days I had often heard of the Ship Street diamond, and the various accounts of its loss were occasionally exaggerated immensely in reference to its size and value. In 1842 some much-needed repairs were in progress at the rere of Delandre's dwelling. Whitewashing and plastering were intended, and the top of the wall between the yard and passage was to be re-glassed. Old Delandre had gone out to buy some provisions, and on his return he was accosted by one of the workmen who had been removing the glass from the wall, and who showed him a curiosity which he had found. Delandre did not require a second look to satisfy himself that it was the long-lost gem. Amongst the glass which had been on the wall there was the neck of a pint bottle, which had been placed in the plaster with the mouth downwards, and it had formed the trap in which the diamond had been caught on falling from the window. Delandre gave the finder a liberal reward; but with a laudable anxiety to remove all suspicion of a sinister nature from himself, he had the discovery of the diamond made the subject of a solemn declaration, which the finder subscribed before me in the Head Police Court. The loss of the gem had been eventually highly advantageous to the man, by whom it was at first very naturally considered a great calamity. It had induced him to adopt a life of strict economy and industry, which easier circumstances would not have suggested or enforced.

SECOND-HAND PLATE.

The same Mr. West to whom the last incident referred had a handsome private residence in Harcourt Street, and he was known habitually to place an unlimited confidence in the care and discretion of his wife, to leave large sums in her custody, and to approve of or acquiesce in the investments to which she might apply such moneys. Her management fully justified his confidence, and he made no secret of the course he had adopted or of the satisfactory results it produced. In 1817 he had arrived one morning in Skinner Row, when a livery servant, of very stylish appearance, entered and enquired, "Had Captain Wilson been there?" Mr. West replied that "he had not the pleasure of knowing Captain Wilson;" and then the servant stated, that "his master, Captain Marmaduke Wilson, intended to purchase some plate, and had ordered him to go to Mr. West's, and await his arrival there." He added, "He is a fine-looking man, but he has lost his right arm at Waterloo. I have to deliver a message in Dame Street. You will easily know him when he comes; and please to tell him that I shall be back in about ten minutes." The servant departed, and very soon after his master made his appearance. A complete militaire, he displayed moustaches, a Waterloo ribbon, and a frogged frock-coat; but the right sleeve was empty from the elbow, and the cuff was looped up to the breast. He inquired for the servant, and seemed a little dissatisfied at the fellow's absence. He then proceeded to inform Mr. West that he was about to fix his residence on a property which he held in the county of Monaghan, and that he wished to unite economy with respectability in his domestic arrangements. He had heard that Mr. West's stock of second-hand plate was very ample, and wished to purchase some on which the crestings could be obliterated and the Wilson crest substituted, producing at the same time a silver snuff-box, on which a crest was engraved, with the initials of Marmaduke Wilson beneath it. The servant had returned, and accompanied his master through the warerooms, conducted by the proprietor, who succeeded in displaying tea services, salvers, &c., which met with Captain Wilson's approval, provided the prices were lower. The demands were reduced considerably, as the customer urged that it was a dealing for "cash down." The charges amounted to one hundred and forty pounds, when the Captain said "he would not go any further for the present," and requested Mr. West to have the plate packed in a basket which the servant had brought, in order that Mrs. Wilson might see the articles before the crests were altered. The silver was directed to be treated as he desired, and he then turned to Mr. West and said, "You must be my amanuensis, and write the order to Mrs. Wilson for the cash. I shall send my man for the money, and when he brings it, you will let him have the basket." Mr. West took the pen, and wrote, at the Captain's dictation—

"Dear Maria,

"I have bought some second-hand plate, of which, I think, you will approve. Send me, by bearer, £140."

He added—"Just put my initials, M. W. Is it not very curious, Mr. West, that our initials are the same?" He then took the pen in his left hand, and made a rough kind of small semicircle in the left-hand corner, which he designated his private mark. "Now," said he to the servant, "make all haste to your mistress, get the money, and fetch it here. I shall wait until you return, for you have not far to go." The servant departed, and the Captain remained for about twenty minutes, and seemed very impatient at the fellow's delay. He expressed an opinion that perhaps his wife had gone out, and said that he would take a car and see what caused the delay, adding, "When he brings you the cash you can let him have the hamper." The Captain then departed. The servant did not come for the plate, and it remained packed and ready for delivery on the arrival of the purchase money. Late in the afternoon Mr. West went home, and having dined, was asked by his wife, "What second-hand plate was it that you bought to-day?" "I bought none," he replied, "but I sold some, and it was to have been taken away at once, but I suppose it will be sent for to-morrow." "And why," enquired Mrs. West, "did you send to me for one hundred and forty pounds? Here is your note, which a servant in livery brought, and I gave him the money."

The swindle was complete. The basket was never called for, nor could the defrauded party ever obtain any trace of the Waterloo Captain or of his livery servant. The reader need not suppose that the veteran delinquent was minus an arm. He was "made up" for the part which he was to play in the deliberate and deeply-planned villainy, and in all probability he had both his hands in full use, to take off his moustache and frogged coat in a few minutes after leaving Mr. West's premises. The transaction excited much interest and some merriment. It afforded a subject for one of Burke Bethel's jokes. He said that whether the captain reappeared or not, he could never be designated otherwise than as off-handed in his dealings with Mr. West.

THE SILVER SLAB.

There was another Dublin establishment in the gold, silver, and jewelry trade, and also belonging to a Mr. West. It was in Capel Street. I may mention an incident connected with it of a very extraordinary nature. There were mills at Chapelizod, near Dublin, kept by a Mr. M'Garry, in which he had very powerful machinery for rolling metals. He was frequently employed to roll silver for Mr. West. In the year 1829, a silver slab, valued at £27, was delivered to his carrier at Capel Street, and the usual receipt was given for it. The slab was to be rolled into a silver sheet; but when the vehicle in which it had been placed arrived at Chapelizod, the article was not to be found. In appearance it was not bright, having lain in store for some time after being cast. Advertisements and enquiries failed to discover it, and Mr. M'Garry paid its value to the owner. In 1845, it was brought to a silversmith named Chapman, on Essex Quay, and offered for sale. Chapman stopped the article, and gave the bearer of it into custody. On an investigation before me, it appeared that a shoemaker who lived in Leixlip had found it on the road and taken it home with him. He never suspected that it was silver. He considered it to be pewter or zinc, and it was used for the purposes of a lapstone for sixteen years. How the person in whose possession it was found had ascertained its real quality did not appear, but he had purchased it from the shoemaker for half-a-crown. West's and M'Garry's books coincided as to the nature of the article, its value, and the time of its loss. The old slab was adjudged to M'Garry, who at once sold it to Chapman for the price he offered, £22. The shoemaker expressed deep, and certainly sincere regret that he had never suspected the real value of his lapstone. His only consolation was, that the roguish fellow who induced him to sell it for half-a-crown, lost two shillings and sixpence by the bargain.

LAW'S WINDOW.

Whilst shops profusely stocked with articles of the precious metals and with costly jewels attract affluent and even extravagant customers, they also afford immense temptations to thieves and swindlers. No establishment in Dublin was superior in any respect to that in Sackville Street belonging to Mr. Law. On each side of the entrance there was a window, consisting of a single sheet of glass, inside of which a most magnificent display of costly plate, gems, and watches tacitly demanded and obtained the admiration of all spectators. In the year 1847, and in the afternoon of a pleasant May day, an elderly gentleman stood at the window next the corner of Eden Quay, and gazed with delight on the various splendid and tasteful productions inside. He had an umbrella, which he carried beneath his arm in a horizontal position, and with the ferule end unluckily too near the costly sheet of glass. A young fellow came rapidly running along the footway, and violently jostled the respectable admirer of the splendid contents of the window. The glass was smashed by the point of the umbrella, and the mischief resulting from the collision only imparted greater celerity to the jostler's movements. He fled down Eden Quay, and was almost instantly out of sight. Mr. Law was in his shop, and along with some of his assistants seized on the proprietor of the intruding umbrella. The old gentleman demurred to the imputed liability, and ascribed all the mischief to the ruffian who had rushed against him. Law was persistent, and demanded nine pounds for his fractured glass. He threatened to give the old gentleman in charge to the police. The latter became very indignant and excited, used extremely strong language, and even applied opprobrious epithets to those by whom he was detained. He said that he was a stranger, just arrived from England, to transact some affairs of importance connected with the purchase of extensive properties in the west of Ireland. He warned Law that he would bring an action, and look for ample damages, if he were not permitted to depart. He stated his name to be James Ridley, and that his residence was in Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. Finding that Law was about to send for a constable, he produced a Bank of England note for £100, and told the "obdurate scoundrel" to take the cost of his window out of that, but at his peril. Law disregarded the threat, deducted nine pounds, and gave £91 to Mr. Ridley, who departed, vowing vengeance. However, no proceedings were instituted, and subsequent enquiries after James Ridley in Lincoln's Inn Fields resulted in no such person being known there. The £100 note was a forgery.

OLD NEWGATE.

Towards the close of the last century, a gaol for the city of Dublin was built, and its appearance had a great tendency to deter any person from incurring the liability of becoming an inmate. Its soot-begrimed walls and rusty portal completely falsified its designation of Newgate, and its front constituted a considerable portion of a locality, the aspect of which suggested no idea of verdure, although it was called Green Street. It was a place replete with fatal memories, very few of which are worthy of being evoked, and it has been completely taken down. The sons of the gentleman who was governor more than fifty years ago were my schoolmates, and my associations with them made me acquainted with some incidents which may be worthy of narration. When Oliver Bond was under sentence of death for treason; and whilst there was the strongest probability that the law would take its course, he was permitted, during the day-time, to occupy an upper apartment, the door of which was partly of glass. Mrs. Bond was as much with him as the rules of the prison allowed, and was sitting in the room on the day when Mr. Michael William Byrne was executed as a united Irishman. The fatal procession had to pass close by the door of Bond's apartment; and as it approached, Mr. Byrne remarked to the sheriff, that Mrs. Bond would be greatly shocked by seeing a person pass to that scaffold on which her husband expected to suffer. Mr. Byrne then suggested that they should stoop and creep noiselessly by the door, so as to escape her observation. His wish was complied with, and on reaching the drop, he turned to the sheriff, and remarked, with an air of great satisfaction, "we managed that extremely well." This spontaneous solicitude to spare the feelings of an afflicted female, will aptly class with that of the gallant Count Dillon, who was one of the earliest victims of the Reign of Terror in France, and who, when he arrived at the guillotine, was requested by a female fellow-sufferer, to precede her, upon which the preux chevalier saluted her with courtly grace, and stepped forward, saying, "anything to oblige a lady."

In one of the back yards of Newgate, to the right of the entrance, was the place of confinement for the condemned, the walls of which exhibited initials, sometimes entire names of unhappy occupants. One, who suffered the extreme penalty of the law nearly sixty years ago, for forging notes of the Bank of Ireland, pencilled the following lines on the door of his cell:—

"Unhappy wretch, whom Justice calls

To bide your doom within these walls,

Know that to thee this gloomy cell

May prove, perhaps, the porch of Hell.

Thy crimes contest, thy sins forgiven,

Mysterious change! it leads to heaven."

It is to be hoped that the soul of the poor prisoner experienced the "mysterious change" which his untimely fate led him so fully to appreciate.

CHAPTER VII. GONNE'S WATCH.

In the year 1810 a manufacturing goldsmith of high respectability, named Gonne, lived in Crow Street, Dublin. His establishment was noted for the superior execution of chased work, especially in watch cases, and he had occasionally extensive orders from the house of Roskill, of Liverpool, the reputation of which for watches and chronometers, was then, as it is still, extremely high. Mr. Gonne indulged himself in the purchase of a splendid gold watch of Roskill's best make, and prided himself greatly on the possession of an article not to be surpassed either in exquisite ornamentation or accuracy of movement. He was fond of pedestrian excursions, and his hours of relaxation were frequently devoted to a ramble along the low road to Lucan, which is certainly not inferior in picturesque scenery, to any other of the many beautiful localities in the vicinity of Dublin; but on one night Mr. Gonne came home greatly disgusted with his promenade, and avowing a determination never again to set foot on that nasty road. He did not bring home his beautiful watch, and it transpired that a man, of small stature, had disturbed an agreeable revery by requesting to be accommodated with whatsoever money Mr. Gonne had in his possession, and that he also expressed great admiration of his watch, and insisted on the immediate delivery of that article. The propinquity of a pistol to Mr. Gonne's breast, induced a speedy compliance with the disagreeable demand. On his arrival in Dublin, Gonne declared that he had been robbed by a little tailor. He stated that the fellow's features were concealed by a veil, and that as soon as he got the watch and a small sum of money into his possession, he managed to ascend the wall of Woodlands demesne with surprising agility, and on it he seated himself cross-legged. He then addressed the victim of his depredation by name, and assured him that his watch should be safely kept, and that an opportunity should be afforded for redeeming it for ten pounds. Gonne apprised the authorities of the outrage which he had suffered. He declared that he never, to his knowledge, beheld the robber before; that he did not recognise his voice, but felt satisfied that he was a tailor, from the manner in which he sat on the wall. An experienced peace-officer who heard the description, agreed with Gonne that the delinquent was a tailor, and added that he knew the man. It appeared that there was a little knight of the thimble, of most remarkable activity, named Flood; he was of dissipated habits, and was known at the racket-court in John's Lane, where his play was most astonishing. He rarely missed a ball, and none would encounter him in a match of rackets, unless at very great odds. Flood was sought for, but was not forthcoming. Several of the provincial towns were searched in vain, and it was supposed that he had left the country, when he was apprehended, almost in the act of committing a highway robbery on the Rock-road, which at that time constituted a portion of the City of Dublin. His haunts were discovered and searched, and several articles of value, supposed to have been acquired by highway robbery, were found. There was a case quite sufficient for the conviction of Flood in the affair for which he was apprehended; but it was deemed expedient to investigate several other charges, and amongst them the robbery of Mr. Gonne, who minutely detailed all the circumstances of his disagreeable adventure on the Lucan Road, but he could not identify the prisoner. He was then directed by the divisional magistrate of police, before whom the case was pending, to pass round to the rere of the bench and view a number of watches which were in a drawer, of which the magistrate had the key. His watch was not amongst them. Flood was committed for trial, and sent to Newgate on two other charges, but the robbery of Mr. Gonne was not considered one on which an indictment could be sustained.

At the period to which this narrative refers, there was in Ireland a Lord Lieutenant belonging to the highest rank of nobility. His tastes and amusements were rather unlike those of his successors. His personal undertaking was quite sufficient for the disposal of three or four bottles of claret after dinner. He was so good a judge of whisky-punch as to impart to Kinahan's LL its peculiar designation and much of its popularity amongst "choice spirits." He dined at Donnybrook fair, upstairs in a tent,[4] visited John's Well in its pattern days, took oyster suppers at "Queen Casey's" cellar in Britain Street, patronized an occasional cockle party at Dollymount, superintended matches of single-stick in the riding school, witnessed what was then termed the "Royal Sport of Cock-fighting" in Clarendon Street; and his fingers were no strangers to "the gloves." But his favourite amusement was harmless and graceful. He played rackets frequently in John's Lane, and took great pleasure in witnessing a match well contested by first-rate players. At the time of Flood's detection, his Excellency was making a tour through the south of Ireland, and after an interval of a few weeks, he returned to Dublin, to receive some English visitors of distinguished position and convivial tendencies. Amongst them was Lord Sydney Osborne, who prided himself upon his skill at rackets, and who on the day of his arrival stated at the viceregal table, that he was open to play "any man in the world" for a thousand guineas. His Excellency immediately took up the wager, and engaged to find a successful competitor for his noble guest. It was stipulated that the match should be played within three weeks, at the racket-court of the Kildare Street Club. On the following morning the Lord Lieutenant proceeded to John's Lane, and apprised the marker of the racket-court that he wished to find a little fellow whom he had frequently seen there, and whom he described as the most expert player that had ever come under his observation, as one who had distanced all his antagonists, but he had forgotten his name.

"My Lord," replied the marker, "I think your Excellency means Flood."

"Yes, yes, I now recollect the name; I want him particularly, for I have wagered a large sum on a match between him and an English gentleman, and if he wins, I shall reward him amply."

"Murder! murder!" exclaimed the marker, "your Grace must lose. Flood can't play your match, he is to be hung on Saturday. He played rackets well, but he played some queer tricks, too. He used to go looking for watches and purses on the roads outside Dublin, and he was caught at last, just near Merrion churchyard. Baron George tried him, and he was found guilty. The judge told him to expect no mercy, so he is to die at Newgate on Saturday."

"'Tis a d——d business," said his Excellency.

"Indeed it's likely to end that way," replied the marker, "for he was rather loosely conducted, and now he has but a very short time to make his soul."

His Excellency departed greatly disconcerted; he felt that he had been too hasty in his wager. His thousand guineas appeared to be hopelessly gone, and he could not bear to think how Lord Sydney Osborne would chuckle at a walk over. He dined that day in Stephen's Green with his very intimate friend, Sir Hercules Langrishe, to whom he took an opportunity of communicating his unpleasant predicament. To his great surprise, Sir Hercules did not appear to think that there was much difficulty in the matter, and he even intimated his willingness to back Flood for a hundred or two. "There is no danger," observed the baronet, "of a change of ministry; you will be Lord Lieutenant for some years; so the sooner you give Flood a pardon, and set him to practise for the match, the better chance for your wager."

"Could there be a memorial got up in his favor?" suggested his Excellency.

"It would not be advisable," replied Sir Hercules; "it would make the affair a public topic. No, that would not do; just send over a pardon to-morrow; let Flood come to me. I shall procure liberty for the fellow to practise at the Shelbourne Barracks, and he also can get into the court at the club at early hours, as it is there that the match is to be played."

It was soon known that Flood was saved. The motive was left to public ingenuity to discover, and, consequently, every reason except the true one was assigned. It was supposed by many that he had given some valuable information about a recent mail-coach robbery; but in the meanwhile, he had been made aware of the high opinion entertained of his skill as a racket-player, and the expectations that he would win the match.

Full of gratitude for having been rescued from the gallows, he promised to win, and redeemed his promise. His noble antagonist was an excellent player, but in hand, eye, and agility, the tailor was greatly superior. The nobleman became agitated and lost his temper, which was speedily followed by his money. His aristocratic feelings were not, however, outraged by even a suspicion of the fact, that he was defeated by a little tailor, who, if the law had been permitted to take its course, would have "shuffled off his mortal coil" in front of Newgate; and who had been liberated from the condemned cell only for the purpose of liberating a thousand guineas from the pocket of a duke's brother.

His Excellency gave Flood fifty pounds and some good advice, suggesting a removal from Dublin and even from Ireland; but Flood was for some time unwilling to depart. He remained in a city where he could only be known as "the unhanged one," and where his character could not be retrieved. His trade was useless. He could not obtain any employment. His money was soon exhausted, and he had an insuperable objection to recur to his former habit of taking nocturnal strolls in quest of watches and purses. Unwilling to give the law another lien on his neck, he at length determined to leave Ireland as soon as he could obtain means of crossing the Channel. Mr. Gonne was rather surprised by receiving a visit from him, and still more by the request of a couple of pounds. The indignation of a man who had been robbed of his watch and money exploded at once. He assured Flood of his sincere regret and deep disappointment at the gallows having been shamefully defrauded of its due. He then informed him, in terms more plain than polite, that he could not expect any contribution on the voluntary principle, but that a reasonable expenditure would be willingly incurred to procure a halter, if its application to Flood's neck was guaranteed. The "unhanged one" bore all this very meekly, and said that he had a simple and intelligible proposal to make, namely, that Mr. Gonne should lodge two pounds in the hands of a certain person, on condition that the money should be restored if the watch was not recovered by its owner; but if the article was obtained for Mr. Gonne, Flood was to receive the deposit, to enable him to leave Dublin for ever.

This offer was acceded to, and the cash was lodged with Jack Stevenson of St. Andrew Street. Jack was a man of very extensive connections. He had nephews and nieces in abundance; and whenever any of them wished to retire plate, jewels, or trinkets from the vulgar gaze, Jack, like an affectionate uncle, advanced, and took charge of the valuable articles. He adorned the space between his front windows with the ancient crest of Lombardy, three golden apples; and his transactions with his relatives were of such a particular nature, that they were recorded in duplicate. He had known Flood in his early days, before he had become an adept either in racket-playing or robbing. He consented to hold the money subject to the specified conditions; and then Flood and Gonne proceeded to the last place to which it might be imagined that the steps of the former would be voluntarily directed, namely, to the Police Office, where he had been charged, and from whence he had been committed. There he told Gonne to remain at the exterior door; and as the Office was about to be closed for the day, he desired him to ask the magistrate when he came out, what was the exact time. Gonne complied with this direction, and His Worship readily, but rather too hastily, produced a watch. No sooner was it displayed than its appearance elicited the most disagreeable oath ever sworn before the "worthy justice," for Gonne instantly explained, "By G——! that's my watch."

Gonne obtained his watch, and was with great difficulty persuaded to refrain from bringing the transaction under the notice of the Executive. The system by which the magistrate managed occasionally to possess himself of a valuable watch or some other costly article, consisted in having two or three drawers wherein to keep the property found with highwaymen or thieves. If the prosecutor identified the delinquent, he was then shown the right drawer; but if he could not swear to the depredator, the wrong drawer was opened.

The magistrate to whom this narrative refers, was dismissed in a short time after, for attempting to embezzle fifty pounds. I wish, for the honor of the profession of which I am proud to be a member, to state that he was not a barrister. Flood was afterwards for many years the marker of a racket court at Tottenham Court Road, London. He judiciously and wittily changed his name to Waters.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] The proprietor of this tent was a person named Cheevers. Having received an intimation, a few days before the fair, that the Lord Lieutenant would, with a select party, dine in his tent, he had it constructed with a lofting or first-floor, and a flight of steps, by which the Viceregal party ascended to their repast. On the succeeding days, whilst the fair lasted, the elevated apartment which had been honored by his Excellency was crowded to excess, and Cheevers received an ample remuneration for his very original project.

CHAPTER VIII. THE MAJOR.

I shall now advert to another Police magistrate whose name I need not refrain from mentioning, inasmuch as although his unpopularity was unparalleled, his name has never been associated with any imputation of a dishonourable or debasing tendency, such as was manifested in reference to Gonne's watch. Henry Charles Sirr was for many years Town-Major of Dublin; and through the insurrection of 1798, and during the outbreak of 1803, he was peculiarly energetic and most unscrupulous in the exercise of his powers as a magistrate of Police, in which capacity he continued until his death in 1841. He was detested by all those to whose opinions he was opposed, and whose designs and acts he was engaged in repressing or punishing. He was not respected by those of a contrary tendency; for he unnecessarily and continually engaged personally in enquiries, searches, and arrests, which a proper appreciation of his magisterial position would have induced him to leave to his subordinates. He was accustomed, during the insurrectionary times, to traverse the streets of Dublin or the suburbs, with some special attendants following at a short distance. He carried pistols, and was also provided with a short heavy bludgeon. If a suspicion crossed his mind in reference to any person whom he casually met, his usual practice was to knock the individual down, and then to ascertain if he had secured the right man. He was of considerable although indirect advantage to his colleagues and successor; for, during his official career, the acts of his colleagues, if of an unpopular tendency, were attributed to the example he afforded, or to his supposed suggestions. His successor was judged by the contrast, and his faults were considered as venial mistakes, whilst the Major's acts were only remembered to be stigmatized as wilful misdeeds. His courage has been doubted, but the imputation of cowardice is not fairly sustained. It arises from the prejudice which satisfied itself that he could not possess any good quality. His conduct at the apprehension of Lord Edward Fitzgerald did not evince either courage or cowardice. He entered the room after the conflict had commenced, and fired the fatal shot, in all probability, to save the life of his associate. He frequently, and without any necessity, risked his personal safety, and there is no sound reason for believing that he was of a pusillanimous nature.

In 1798 Sirr received information that a young man of most respectable family, who had involved himself in the insurrectionary movement of the period, had arrived in Dublin, and was concealed in the upper room of a house in Bull Alley. The Major proceeded, attended by several of his myrmidons, to the place, and entered a house on the right hand side from Bride Street, the lower part of the premises being a butcher's shop. He went up to the front two-pair room, and there surprised the accused party lying on a bed, and partly undressed. He held a pistol to the young man's head, and commanded him to arise and surrender. The mandate was complied with, and the captive apparently submitted to his fate. He arose and asked permission to wash his face and hands, which was accorded, and he then put on his coat, which the Major had previously ascertained to have no weapons in the pockets. Suddenly the prisoner made a spring, throwing himself bodily against the window, which yielded to his force, and out he went. Sirr shouted and dashed down stairs, greatly impeded by his own assistants who were hurrying up on the alarm. The poor fellow who had adopted so desperate an expedient, met, in his fall, a clothes pole, and then came on some wooden shed-work which projected over the front of the shop; the latter was rather crazy and gave away. He sprang to his feet unhurt, darted down the alley and escaped by one of the numerous passages with which it communicated. Sirr hastened down to the Coombe, turned out the Poddle guard, and searched the neighbourhood, but without success. When the British government, after the campaign of Waterloo, formed some regiments of lancers, they procured two Austrian officers, of ascertained capability, to impart a knowledge of the lance exercise to those regiments. One of the officers was the Bull Alley jumper. He took an opportunity of renew his acquaintance with Sirr, and jocosely apologised for having terminated their previous interview so suddenly and unceremoniously.

Sirr was once tricked into making himself instrumental in carrying out the punishment desired by an outraged father against a profligate son, and it occurred also in the unhappy year of 1798. There was a wealthy bookseller residing on Lower Ormond Quay, who had a son, his only child, bearing the same Christian name. Mr. Patrick W——, the father, was very indulgent. Mr. Patrick W——, the son, was extremely vicious. His time was chiefly spent in society of the most objectionable description, and he was not particular as to the means whereby he made his father's money available for his licentious pleasures. He had been absent from the paternal roof for some weeks. His father had vainly sought to discover him, when he unexpectedly met him in the street, and directed a storm of well-merited reproaches on the young reprobate.

Young Pat stood submissively attentive to his parent, and allowed him to vent the first burst of his wrath, and when old Pat closed his impassioned complaints by peremptorily ordering him to go home, he mildly replied, "I was going there, sir, to try if you would admit me; I own it is more than I deserve, but give me one trial more before you cast me off: give me one more trial, and you shall not regret it."

"You young villain! where have you spent the last month?"

"I spent it as badly as I could, except the last week, and during that time I have been with Mr. Luke White, at Woodlands."

"At Woodlands!" exclaimed the astonished old man, "Is it with Luke White, my oldest, my most valued friend, you have been?"

"Yes sir. This day week I was walking in Stephen's Green, and Mr. White met me. I sought to avoid him, I own that, but he called after me, took me aside and expostulated with me about my habits and associates. He told me that I was breaking your heart, and that I must reform my life. He said that he grieved, as did all your friends, over the coming ruin of your hopes, and that he was determined, if possible, to avert it; that you were his esteemed, respected, and highly valued friend. He then proposed that I should go out to him that evening to Woodlands for a week, and that in the peaceful retirement of that residence, he would try to bring me to a proper sense of duty to a worthy father. I yielded to his remonstrances, and accepted his invitation; and having spent the week with that excellent gentleman, I was going, by his direction, to throw myself upon my knees before you, and implore your forgiveness."

"Oh!" exclaimed old Pat, "may heaven's choicest blessings be showered on him, my real, true friend, who felt for my misery, and has relieved it. Come, Pat, my darling boy, all is forgiven and forgotten. Happiness is in store for us both. You will be my pride and comfort. I can die contented if my eyes are closed by a son whom I leave respectable in conduct and character."

Father and son proceeded home; and old Pat immediately sought all means to convince young Pat of his faults having been condoned. He was informed of the business transactions then pending; and his father handed him a cheque for a considerable amount, and directed him to proceed to the bank, and pay some bills which were due that day.

Young Pat departed. He did not return; and the notary's messengers called in the evening with the unpaid bills. The miserable parent was only able to discover that his son had been seen, during the afternoon, in most disreputable society. Next morning old Pat waited on Mr. White, and thanked him most warmly for his exertions to reclaim the young reprobate by his advice and expostulations. "If anything could have produced a good effect on him," exclaimed the agonized father, "it would have been your advice, your example, and the contemplation of the sweet scene and happy family to which your invitation last week——"

"My dear sir," interrupted Mr. White, "there is a great delusion on your mind. I have not seen your son, nor have I had any communication whatever with him for more than twelve months."

The old gentleman staggered to a seat. A terrible convulsion shook his frame. Then supervened that which is fearful to witness in woman, but doubly horrible in man, hysterical tears and sardonic laughter. At length the fit terminated. Old Pat arose and took his leave. He walked away with surprising energy, and his countenance assumed a calmness beneath which was concealed nothing less

"Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire."

Old Pat sought a private interview with Major Sirr, and confided to him strong suspicions that young Pat was compromised with the United Irishmen, and that if closely and properly interrogated, he could disclose a great deal, especially as to some depôts of pikes and other weapons intended for insurrectionary purposes. He affected to stipulate for the utmost secrecy as to the Major's informant, protested that he regarded the rebels with the utmost horror and detestation, and that he had no idea of favoring a change in public affairs detrimental to those who, by unremitting industry, had realized property. He suggested that his son, when arrested, should be brought to the Custom House, which, at that time, was in Essex Street, and directly opposite to his own residence on Ormond Quay. Sirr entered into his views, complimented him on his prudence and loyalty, and took immediate measures for the arrest of young Pat, who, when captured, was delivered to some of "Beresford's Troop," to exercise their inquisitorial talents in eliciting all he knew about men whom he had never seen, and as to designs of which, in all probability, he had never heard. The young man was perfectly free from all political or religious influences. Beau Brummell might as justly have been accused of complicity in the designs of revolutionary sans culottes, as young Pat of any sympathy with other pursuits than the midnight orgies and debasing revels of the worst of both sexes.

In the Custom House yard he was interrogated, and his denials only produced louder and sterner demands. Truth, strict truth, issued from lips to which it had been hitherto a stranger. The triangles stood before him, and all his protestations of innocence were uttered to ears worse than deaf. He was stripped, tied up, and lashed until he swooned; then taken down, and recalled to a sense of existence by restoratives, only to be put up again, until, at last, he lay before his torturers, a lacerated and semi-animate frame, incapable of enduring further suffering. They cursed him as an obdurate, callous villain, from whom nothing could be extorted; and whilst his terrific punishment was in process of infliction, his father was looking on, from the window of his residence. The wretched youth was conveyed home, and a considerable time elapsed before he was sufficiently recovered to proceed to America, whence he never returned. His father made no secret of the means he adopted to punish young Pat and to trick the Major.

Sirr was occasionally humorous. He announced to one of his acquaintances the fate which was expected to befal Theobald Wolfe Tone, in the laconic phrase—"Mr. Tone is to a-tone to-morrow in the front of Newgate." Galvin, the hangman, having applied to Sirr for his interest and recommendation to procure a small pension, laid before him a memorial, which he was desirous of having forwarded to Government under the Major's auspices. In it the veteran executioner submitted that for many years he had acted as finisher of the law in the County and City of Dublin, with frequent visits for professional purposes to towns on the Home and the Leinster circuits. That age and infirmities were rendering him incapable of continuing his public duties; and that he humbly besought a small pension for the support of his declining years. "Tom," said the Major, "you should have stated in your memorial that during your official career you discharged your duties to the perfect satisfaction of all parties concerned." "I thank you, Major," replied the stupid old wretch, "I'll get it altered, and put that in." One of Sirr's colleagues, a barrister, was remarkable for speaking in a low voice, and with a great lisp. He was indebted to the Major for the nickname of "Mississippi."

At a funeral in St. Werburgh's churchyard, and close by the vaults in which the body of Lord Edward Fitzgerald had been deposited, the Major was present. After the interment, a Mr. S. ——, whose person was invariably extremely slovenly, approached him and remarked, "I suppose, Major, that you cannot be here without thinking of Lord Edward."

"My friend," was the reply, "I am at present thinking of you, and wondering from whence you derive such an ample supply of soiled shirts."

In 1831, during Earl Grey's administration, Sirr attended meetings convened in favour of Parliamentary Reform, and moved resolutions of the most liberal tendency. He voted at the city election for the Reform candidates, and was twitted by the late Thomas Ellis for having deserted his party and forgotten his principles. His answer was simple and true—"I am totally unchanged; I have always supported the Government, and I shall continue to do so."

When the piers which form Kingstown harbour were in course of construction, the supply of stone was derived from immense quarries at Killiney, and conveyed along a tramway, on which, near the quarries, there were slopes, down which the loaded waggons required no impelling power, but rather to be restrained, by breaks, from acquiring a dangerous velocity. Major Sirr was fond of collecting natural curiosities, especially of a geological nature; and he frequently visited Killiney in quest of spar formations, which were occasionally found there. He was by no means niggardly in his dealings with the spar finders; but still he could not conciliate them into a feeling of kindness or respect. One day he was proceeding up the tramway slope, when the discharge of artillery at the Pigeon House fort attracted his attention. He turned and looked in the direction of the firing, just at the moment when a train of loaded wagons was about to descend. Being right before them, he would have been utterly destroyed in a moment, but the breaksman saw his perilous situation, and applied the requisite pressure, stopped the train, and saved the Major. Several persons witnessed his danger and the prompt means by which it was averted. On the transaction becoming known in the quarries, there was an immediate strike. All work was stopped, and a determination was unanimously avowed to insist on the dismissal of the breaksman. No specific complaint was preferred against the individual whose expulsion was required. The Harbour Commissioners deputed Mr. Hickman Kearney to enquire into the grounds and reasons for such an extraordinary demand. He went to the quarries and called on the workmen to come forward and explain the cause of their animosity to the breaksman. The only reply was that "he should go." It appeared, on reference to the clerk of the works, and to the overseers, that the obnoxious man was honest, sober, diligent, and attentive to his duties; and it was strongly urged that no accident had occurred at the slope since his appointment, and that he had, by his presence of mind and promptitude, saved Major Sirr's life. This produced a general exclamation of "That's the reason he shan't stay amongst us. What business had he to save the Major?" The poor breaksman would have lost his employment, but for an old and influential workman who interfered in his favor, and induced the others to forgive him, provided he faithfully promised never to do the like again.

The Major was peculiarly unpopular amongst the hackney carriage drivers, and yet he was not a severe judge of their delinquencies, for he dismissed nearly half the complaints preferred before him, and the average of his fines was three shillings and sixpence; still, they hated him; and although he preached to them very many little sermons in the carriage court, and occasionally sought to impart Scriptural knowledge to their minds, the benighted "jarveys" detested the magisterial apostle. At last "the Major" died. His illness was very brief, and his indisposition commenced in a covered car. He drove home to the Lower Castle-yard, and never rallied, but sank in a few hours. The story was circulated that he actually died in a covered car; and for some time after his decease, I was occasionally treated to the hearing of complaints preferred by covered car-drivers against outside carmen, for usurping their turns, and defrauding them of their jobs. It was, and is, very unusual for carmen to summon members of their own body; but in the cases to which I refer there was a peculiar grossness assigned to the offence. "Yer worship," the plaintiff would exclaim, "I would not mind him stumping me, but he roared out to the people that were going to hire me that my car was the very one the owld Major died in, and yer worship, I couldn't be expected to forgive that."

CHAPTER IX. COMMITTALS—A BARBER WANTED—DWYER THE REBEL—AN EXTRAORDINARY INQUEST—SERGEANT GREENE'S HORSE—CHRISTY HUGHES—THE POLICE CLERKS—RECORDER WALKER—THE POLICE STATUTES—PREAMBLE—A BENEFIT SOCIETY CASE—POLICE RECRUITS—A BORN SOLDIER.

It is pleasing to observe decided improvements in institutions of importance to the community. In the time of Major Sirr, the coarsest language was addressed from the bench of the police courts, not only to prisoners on serious charges, but to persons prosecuting or defending summonses. If a magistrate of police were now to apply terms of abuse, even to the most disreputable characters, he would most certainly be severely censured, or perhaps dismissed. The personal characters of the present magistrates of Dublin ensure the observance of the strictest propriety in their courts. I may remark, also, that imprisonment cannot now be inflicted in the reckless manner formerly adopted. On the day when my magisterial functions commenced, I called for a list of the existing committals to the Dublin prisons from the Head Office. I was astonished to find that one man had been detained for the previous fifteen years, another for thirteen, and a third for ten, in default of sureties to keep the peace, and be of good behaviour. I ordered the immediate discharge of those persons, and two of them expressed great dissatisfaction at being thrown upon the world from which they had been so long estranged. These committals were signed by Major Sirr. There is no danger of persons being now sent to prison, and forgotten there; for if such a committal were sent, through ignorance or inadvertence, the Board of Superintendence would soon draw attention to the fact of a prisoner's subsistence being charged on the public for an illegal or unreasonable period. At the time when the committals to which I have alluded came under my notice, I happened to meet with some reports from a Governor of the Richmond Bridewell addressed to the magistrates of the Head Police Office during the time when that prison was under their exclusive control and supervision. In one of these documents, the writer states the building to be in good repair, and perfectly adapted for the safe custody of its inmates, and that every ward was in a clean and wholesome condition. He proceeds to describe the good effects produced by the use he made of a barber, who, for riotous and disorderly conduct, had been committed for two months with hard labour. He had not put the delinquent to stone-breaking or oakum picking, but employed him in shaving and hair-cutting the other prisoners, the effect of which was to improve their appearance, and to impart cleanly tendencies. He then expresses his regret that the barber's term of imprisonment had elapsed, and that the prisoners had become less cleanly-looking from remaining unshaven and uncropt. He terminates the report by earnestly and most respectfully suggesting to "their worships" to avail themselves of the first opportunity that may offer for committing another barber for the longest term in their power.

For some time after my appointment to the magistracy, Alderman John Smith Fleming was my senior colleague at the Head Office. He had a very vivid recollection of the rebellion of 1798, and was secretary to his uncle, Alderman Thomas Fleming, Lord Mayor of Dublin in that year. Amongst other anecdotes of that period, I have heard him relate that Dwyer, one of the insurgent chiefs, had prolonged his resistance for some months after the insurrection had been generally quelled. In the mountains of Wicklow, with a few but faithful followers, he evaded every exertion for his capture. Mr. Hume, of Humewood, near Baltinglass, was particularly anxious to secure Dwyer. He was the commander of a corps of yeomanry, and a magistrate of the County of Wicklow, which he also represented in Parliament. Of very extensive influence, he easily procured the co-operation of the civil and military authorities of his own and of the adjoining districts. Still Dwyer was not to be had. At length an arrangement was made that the yeomanry corps of the western portion of Wicklow should assemble, at an early hour on an appointed day, at Humewood, and should set out to scour the country, exploring every recess, and leaving no place, on hill or plain, unransacked for Dwyer. Yeomanry from Wexford, Carlow, and Kildare were to move on preconcerted points, so as to intercept the fugitive if he should attempt to shift his quarters. A day was wholly spent in a most fatiguing search. It seemed as if Dwyer had transformed himself into a bird, and flown beyond sight or reach. However, in a short time, Mr. Hume received an intimation, that if Dwyer's life would be spared, and that he would be permitted to leave the country, he was willing to surrender. With the assent of the Government, Mr. Hume acceded to this offer. Dwyer was brought to Dublin, and the required undertaking and consequent immunity from punishment were acknowledged before the Lord Mayor. The outlaw was kindly and generously treated by Mr. Hume during the few days which preceded his departure for America; and at a final interview Mr. Hume said—"Before we part, Dwyer, will you tell me how you avoided capture on the day that we scoured the whole country in search of you?" "Sir," replied Dwyer, "I had information of your intentions, so I went to Humewood on the night before, and when the yeomen were paraded on your lawn, before they started in search of me, I was looking at them from your hay-loft."

For some years previous to 1842, the number of persons "found drowned" in the County of Dublin was much greater than might be expected either from the extent of the population or the nature of the locality. It was indeed true that one canal, the Grand, extended along the greater part of the southern boundary of the Irish metropolis, and another, the Royal, was similarly situated in the northern direction; but although these canals afforded great facilities for the termination of human existence, whether by suicide or accident, the cases of drowning were far more numerous than could be fairly attributed to violence, intoxication, lunacy, or carelessness. It would also seem that the southern canal was much more destructive to human life than the other, and that the bank which was in the county possessed some attraction for the corpses, for they were almost always taken out at the county side. It happened on the 11th of March, 1842, a few minutes before 10 o'clock, a.m., that a young man named Kinsella, who was employed in a distillery at Marrowbone Lane, was proceeding, after his breakfast, from his residence at Dolphin's Barn to resume his work, when, on approaching the canal bridge, he was stopped by a constable, who informed him that the coroner required his attendance, as a juror, on an inquest that was about to be held on the body of an old man, just taken out of the canal. Kinsella vainly expostulated against the detention. He was told that it would be a very short business, for there were no marks of violence on the corpse; it would merely be a case of "found drowned." The man was accordingly sworn on the inquest, and the coroner having informed the jury that they were required by law to view the body, they were conducted to the apartment where it lay. As soon as Kinsella beheld the corpse, he rushed forward, dropped on his knees beside it, seized the stiff and frigid hand, and exclaimed, "My father! my poor, dear father! We buried him on this day week, decently and well, in the Hospital Fields. He had no business in the canal; and them old clothes never belonged to him; he never wore a stitch of them." The coroner and the doctor vainly endeavoured to persuade Kinsella that he was mistaken; and his recognition of his parent produced an enquiry, which resulted in bringing to light some very extraordinary practices on the part of the county functionary and his medical satellite. They were paid by public presentment, according to the number of inquests held; and they had recourse to the expedient of having bodies disinterred, clothed in old habiliments, and thrown into the canal. Such bodies were almost always discovered very soon, and were taken out on the county side of the canal, to swell the coroner's next presentment for inquests on persons who were "found drowned." A crush from a passing barge afforded an additional profit, as the bruises constituted a plausible reason for a post mortem examination, and thereby doubled the doctor's ordinary fee. The coroner and his associate were convicted of conspiring to defraud, and consequently were deprived of their functions. It must be acknowledged that, if their mode of procuring inquests was not honest, it was certainly novel and ingenious. If the practice had been known in the days of Hamlet, it would have furnished an additional reason for his exclamation:—

"To what base uses we may return, Horatio."

In the year 1842, and for several subsequent years, by an arrangement with my colleagues, I undertook the magisterial duties connected with the licensing and regulation of job and hackney vehicles, and the adjudication of complaints in the carriage court. At the time when I assumed those duties, Richard Wilson Greene (whose high legal acquirements ultimately obtained for him the position of Baron in the Court of Exchequer) was in very extensive practice at the Bar. An issue from Chancery was sent to be tried at one of the principal towns on the Leinster Circuit, and he was specially retained for one of the parties. A very efficient reporter, named Christopher Hughes, in whose character there was great comical eccentricity, was employed to take down, in shorthand, the trial of the issue. Early in the succeeding term, it was arranged that a consultation should be held at the house of the senior counsel, in Leeson Street, and Mr. Hughes was requested to meet Mr. Greene at the Courts, with his notes, and to accompany him to the consultation. The appointed time had nearly arrived, when Greene and Hughes hurried off from the Four Courts. Having passed out to the quay, the former hailed an outside car, on which they sat beside each other, and the driver was ordered to make all possible haste to Leeson Street. The horse was a fine-looking animal, but he stepped high and was very slow. Mr. Greene urged the driver to hasten on, and after two or three expostulations, he remarked to the Jehu that the horse was unfit for a jaunting car, although he was large and strong, but that he would suit well for a family carriage. The driver, a lad of eighteen or nineteen years of age, exclaimed, "Bedad your honor is a witch!" "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Greene. "Oh," replied the carman, "I mane no offince, but yer honor is right about the baste; that's what he is. I'll tell yer honor a saycret. The baste is a carriage horse belonging to one Counsellor Greene, and the coachman has a hack-car and figure on Bride Street stand. He ginerally manages to have something the matther with one of the horses, and that gives him an opportunity to get a good deal of work out of the other in the car." Although Mr. Greene was very angry at what the driver had communicated, he did not disclose that he was the owner of the horse. He whispered to Hughes, and requested him to give the driver his name and address, but to leave him unpaid. When they arrived at Leeson Street, Greene at once entered the house of the senior counsel, and warned the servant against telling his name to the carman. Hughes had a scene, and was treated to a copious supply of opprobrious epithets, but he did not pay, and merely gave his name and address. He was summoned, at the owner's suit, before me; and when the case was called the proprietor of the vehicle, in very energetic terms, demanded exemplary costs against the defaulting hirer of his car. His denunciations were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Greene; and there was abundant merriment, of which I had a full share, when it transpired that the learned Queen's Counsel had hired a hack-car drawn by his own horse. The coachman ran out of court, and I afterwards heard that he never applied for wages or discharge. The incident attained great publicity, and afforded much amusement in "The Hall" amongst the long-robed fraternity. One day Greene said to some of his brethren that he believed the fellow had left Dublin, but that he was strongly tempted to send the police in quest of him. "Send your horse," observed the facetious Robert Holmes, "for he is best acquainted with the carman's traces."

Mr. Hughes, whose name appears in the preceding anecdote, deserves to be noticed upon his own merits. He was frequently engaged in reporting proceedings in the Police Courts, and we never had occasion to impute any inaccuracy to his statements. He was always ready to assist any of his brethren of the "press-gang," and to suggest a palliation or excuse for their casual errors. I frequently indulged him with permission to sit in the magistrate's room whilst he was transcribing his notes, and I have been often amused with his remarks and statements, which were strictly true, and in which he never concealed his own professional expedients or mistakes. He mentioned that he was directed to go to one of the dinners of the Malachean Orphan Society, where O'Connell presided, but having indulged in his potations at a luncheon, he forgot the requirement for his services at Mrs. Mahony's great rooms in Patrick Street. "I slept," said he, "until about 11 o'clock, and then I recollected myself, so I went quietly to the office and got the file of the previous year, and, with a little alteration, it did for the day's dinner as well." He often mentioned what he designated his greatest mistake. He described it thus:—"On the concluding day of George the Fourth's visit, in 1821, he went to Powerscourt, where he got a splendid reception from the noble proprietor. Lord Powerscourt had caused reservoirs to be constructed above the waterfall, in order that when his Majesty went to see it, the sluices might be drawn, and a tremendous cataract produced. I went down in the morning and viewed the place, and minutely noted all the preparations. I then drew on my imagination for a description of a second Niagara, and put into the mouth of the royal visitor various exclamations of delight and surprise. I sent off my report, and it appeared in due time, but unfortunately the king was too much hurried by other arrangements, and did not go to the Waterfall at all, but drove direct from Powerscourt House to Kingstown, where he embarked. I have been often quizzed for my imaginative report, but, nevertheless, I stated what the King ought to have done, and what he ought to have said, and if he did otherwise, it was not my fault."

I was extremely fortunate, at my accession to magisterial office, to find myself provided with clerks who could not be surpassed in diligence, integrity, or intelligence. I shall particularize Messrs. Pemberton and Cox. The former was the son of a previous chief magistrate, at whose instance he was appointed. The latter had been for several years in America, and had been engaged by Jacob Philip Astor in forming the settlement of Astoria, in Washington Irvine's description of which he is most favorably mentioned. He was a man of great literary taste, and was an accomplished linguist. Their performance of official duties never required from me, nor to my knowledge from any of my colleagues, the slightest correction or reproof. Pemberton was a solicitor, and was promoted in 1846 to the Clerkship of the Crown for the King's County. He had been many years before an assistant to Messrs. Allen and Greene, the Clerks of the Peace for the City of Dublin. I shall have to notice hereafter some amusing incidents connected with Cox, but shall give precedence to a few anecdotes derived from Pemberton, and arising from his acquaintance with the old Session House in Green Street, and the records there, to which, I suppose, he had full access.

Towards the close of the last century an aid-de-camp of the then viceroy was indicted, at the Quarter Sessions, for the larceny of a handsome walking-stick, and also for assaulting the gentleman who owned it, and who was, moreover, a Frenchman. The transaction arose in a house of a description unnecessary to be particularized. An affray took place, the Frenchman was kicked down stairs, and lost his cane, which was alleged to have been wrested from him by the aid-de-camp. The charge of larceny was absurd, and the grand jury ignored the indictment. But the assault could neither be denied nor justified, and the traverser submitted, pleaded "guilty," and was fined five pounds. That punishment did not cure his propensity for beating Frenchmen and taking their sticks. On the 21st of June, 1813, he beat Marshal Jourdan at Vittoria, and captured his baton; and on the 18th of June, 1815, at Waterloo, he beat the greatest Frenchman that ever lived, Napoleon Bonaparte. I do not feel justified in naming the delinquent aid-de-camp, and perhaps the reader may think it quite unnecessary that I should.

More than half a century has elapsed since the office of Recorder of Dublin was held by Mr. William Walker, whose town residence was in Lower Dominick Street. One day a groom, in the service of a Mr. Gresson, was tried before him, for stealing his master's oats. The evidence was most conclusive, for the culprit had been detected in the act of taking a large bag of oats out of his master's stable, which was in the lane at the back of the east side of Dominick Street. When the prisoner was convicted, the Recorder addressed him to the following effect:—"The sentence of the Court is, that you are to be imprisoned for three calendar months; and at the commencement of that term you are to be publicly whipped from one end of that lane to the other, and back again; and in the last week of your imprisonment, you are to be again publicly whipped from one end of that lane to the other, and back again; for I am determined, with the help of Providence, to put a stop to oat-stealing in that lane." His worship's emphatic denunciation of oat-stealing in that lane, arose from the circumstance of his own stable being the next door to Mr. Gresson's.

The same civic functionary was a great amateur farmer. He had a villa and some acres of land at Mount Tallant, near Harold's Cross, and prided himself upon his abundant crops of early hay. On one occasion he entered the court to discharge his judicial duties at an adjourned sessions, and was horrified at hearing from the acting Clerk of the Peace (Mr. Pemberton) that there were upwards of twenty larceny cases to be tried. "Oh!" said he, "this is shocking. I have three acres of meadow cut, and I have no doubt that the haymaking will be neglected or mismanaged in my absence." In a few minutes, he inquired in an undertone, "Is there any old offender on the calendar?"

"Yes," was the reply, "there is one named Branagan, who has been twice convicted for ripping lead from roofs, and he is here now for a similar offence, committed last week in Mary's Abbey."

"Send a turnkey to him," said the Recorder, "with a hint that, if he pleads guilty, he will be likely to receive a light sentence."

These directions were complied with, and the lead-stealer was put to the bar and arraigned.

"Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, my lord."

"The sentence of the court is that you be imprisoned for three months. Remove him."

Branagan retired, delighted to find a short imprisonment substituted for the transportation that he expected. As he passed through the dock, he was eagerly interrogated by the other prisoners—

"What have you got?"

"Three months."

"Three months—only three months!" they exclaimed; "Oh! but we're in luck. His lordship is as mild as milk this morning. It's seldom that he's in so sweet a humour."

"Put forward another," said the Recorder.

"Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, my lord."

"Let the prisoner stand back, and arraign the next."

Accordingly, the prisoners were rapidly arraigned, and the same plea of "Guilty" recorded in each case. Presently it was signified to his lordship that the calendar was exhausted. All the thieves had pleaded guilty.

"Put the prisoners to the front of the dock," said he; and they were mustered as he directed. He then briefly addressed them—

"The sentence of the court is that you and each of you be transported for seven years. Crier, adjourn the court."

Branagan had been thrown as a sprat, and had caught the other fish abundantly. This incident might afford a useful, or perhaps it should be termed, a convenient suggestion, to other judicial functionaries, especially on circuit when there is a crowded dock.

When Mr. Pemberton received the appointment of Clerk of the Crown for the King's County, Mr. Cox, who had been for several years the second clerk in the Head Police Office, succeeded to the chief clerkship. He possessed very extensive knowledge of the world, and was highly educated. Many incidents connected with him are worthy of being recorded. I may mention here that the Police Laws of the Irish Metropolitan district are, to the highest degree, complex, voluminous, involved, and perplexing. In the English Metropolitan district two statutes regulate, one the Police Force, and the other the Police Courts. In Dublin we have a statute passed in 1808, another in 1824, a third in 1836, a fourth in 1837, a fifth in 1838, a sixth in 1839, a seventh in 1842, and an Act in relation to public carriages, which may also be termed a police statute, in 1848. They contain three hundred and sixty-six sections, and may be designated as disgraceful to the several executive governments which have left them unconsolidated and uncodified. When the 5th Vic. sess. 2, Chap. 24, passed, it recited the other Acts to which I have alluded, and then its preamble proceeds to heap or bundle them all together in the following terms:—

"Be it therefore enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, that the said recited Acts of the forty-eighth year of the reign of King George the Third, of the fifth year of the reign of King George the Fourth, of the session of Parliament holden in the sixth and seventh years of the reign of King William the Fourth, of the first year of Her present Majesty's reign, and of the sessions of Parliament holden respectively in the first and second, second and third, and third and fourth years of Her present Majesty's reign, and this Act, shall be construed together as one Act; and that all and every the enactments and provisions therein contained shall apply and extend to this Act, and to all Convictions, Warrants, Distresses, Proceedings, and Things, made, taken, or done in execution of this Act, as fully to all intents and purposes as if the same were herein repeated and re-enacted, save in so far as such enactments and provisions are inconsistent with or contrary to this Act, or as such enactments or provisions may be altered by this Act, or other enactments or provisions made in lieu thereof."

Mr. Cox commented on this farrago by observing that "its framer would have an easy death, for that if he was affected with ague, or even if he were hanged, he would be too lazy to shake in the former or to kick in the latter case." In the blank leaf of a bound copy of the Police statutes, the following was written in reference to the preceding quotation:—

"The preamble saith the forty-eighth of George the Third is one, that must be tack'd to another Act, the fifth of George his son. Then whilst you're at it, just take a statute, the sixth and seventh session, of him who did own the British throne, the next in due progression. Then the first of the reign of our present Queen, and then the first and second; the next that occurred was the second and third, then the third and fourth is reckoned. All these in fact, to the present Act, you must fasten tight as leather. There may be flaws in many a clause, but, take them all together, it must be your plan, as well as you can, to deal with your numerous doubts, or be the employer of some shrewd lawyer, to shew you their ins and outs. If your puzzled brain, you rack in vain, until you fume and curse; if they bother you, why they've bothered me too, so take them for better, for worse."

There were, and I suppose still are, many complaints preferred before divisional magistrates, at the Police Courts, in reference to claims on Benefit or Friendly Societies, for allowances in cases of sickness, or for money payable to members or their representatives, under family visitations. Whenever any summonses on such subjects were disposed of by me, I called for the transaction and account-books, and required them to be produced at the commencement of the proceedings. On one occasion a quire of copy paper, stitched in a cover of brown, in a condition absolutely dirty, and in which the entries were irregularly scrawled, was handed up to me. I strongly censured such a slovenly mode of recording their proceedings as very discreditable. On hearing the complainant, I considered that the case was very well suited for an arbitration, and the parties offered no objection to have it so disposed of; but they disagreed on each of the other societies which were suggested for the purpose of deciding it. However, one of the persons concerned said, that he would be satisfied to leave the matter entirely to Paddy Flannery, whom he saw present, and whom he considered "the most knowledgeable man in all Dublin on such a business." The others concurred, and I directed Mr. Cox to indorse on the copy of the summons a reference by me, with the consent of the parties, of all matters in dispute between them to the aforesaid Flannery. I proceeded with some other business; and the indorsement having been made, I signed it without any hesitation, and it was given to the late Mr. Charles Fitzgerald, who was concerned in the case, but in whose honor and probity all parties who knew him fully confided. In a day or two after, I was talking to him, during a few minutes of leisure, and he showed me the indorsement which I had signed. It was as follows:—

"This Benefit Society, which keeps no proper book, evinces impropriety deserving a rebuke. As further litigation on each part they decline, no other observation is requisite on mine. 'Tis left to Patrick Flannery to judge of every fact, and in whatever manner he thinks right they're bound to act. My order I reserve until he makes out his award, and when he does, at once I will the rule of Court record."

Dr. Ireland was, for many years, the principal surgeon of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. He had to inspect the recruits, and satisfy himself of their size, health, mental capacity, and bodily strength being suitable to the service in which they proposed to engage. Cox said that the Dublin Police was in one respect, very like to Howth Harbor, as no one could get into either without passing "Ireland's Eye." When the railway was being made from Dublin to Wicklow, he said that its course through the County of Dublin was extremely inharmonious, for it went first to a Dun-drum, proceeded to a Still-organ, and then attained to a Bray.

Mr. Cox came into the Police Court one morning after the custody cases had been disposed of. He brought forward an elderly female whom he stated to be desirous of making a statutable declaration before me, and which she had brought already drawn. There was a peculiar expression in his countenance as he suggested that I might, perhaps, be pleased to peruse the document previous to its official reception. It was made under circumstances which I shall briefly mention. A young man named Dempsey thought fit to embrace a military life, and enlisted in the 97th Regiment. He did not give his paternal name, but adopted the maiden name of his mother, and was enrolled as Peter Moran. He served for some years in India, but died there from the effects of sun-stroke. Some arrears of pay and a share of prize-money were due at the time of his decease; and his widowed mother applied, as next of kin, to obtain the amount. The War-Office authorities did not understand how Peter Moran came to be the son of Anne Dempsey. The declaration to which Cox slyly drew my attention was intended to afford an explanation of the grounds on which the claim was preferred, and it, moreover, afforded an instance of a martial disposition being as early in its inception as the birth-acquired tendency of poetic inspiration. The declaration was as follows:—

"Police District of Dublin}
Metropolis, to wit,}

I Bridget Carey, of Fade Street, in the City of Dublin, widow, do hereby solemnly declare that I am a midwife, and have been such for the last thirty-five years; and I further declare that about twenty-seven years ago, I attended Anne Dempsey who was then living in Little Longford Street, in her confinement, and, with God's assistance, I then and there safely delivered her of the soldier in dispute, and I make this declaration for the information of the Secretary-at-war, and the other authorities of the War Office, &c."

Cox remarked, with an assumption of gravity which was irresistibly comic, "I suppose, your worship, that it is not necessary to describe the uniform or accoutrements in which 'the soldier' made his natal appearance." The document was retained by me, and another was substituted, in which the deceased was not accorded the distinction of having been "born a soldier."

CHAPTER X. MENDICANCY.

I think that some useful information may be blended with amusement by offering to my readers a few anecdotes in reference to mendicancy and the laws intended for its repression. Two persons were charged before me at the Head Police Office, in 1843, with begging in the public streets. One was detected in Castle Street and the other in Palace Street. They were male and female, and stated themselves to be brother and sister. Neither denied the commission of the offence. Having been searched at the station-house, the man was found to have £300 in his possession, and the woman had £180. I do not recollect what names they gave, but I am sure they were not the real ones. They were committed, each for a calendar month, with hard labor; but during the period of their imprisonment their subsistence was charged on the rates of the city of Dublin, and the £480 were returned to them at their discharge. I have been informed that the law of Scotland authorises the support of vagrants, when committed to gaol, to be defrayed from money found in their possession. If such be the case, I would suggest to our Irish Members to have the law of this country, in cases of vagrancy, assimilated to the Scotch system as quickly as possible.

Very soon after the occurence which I have mentioned, a gentleman who resided at Kingstown, arrived there by train between seven and eight o'clock, p.m. He was walking up the Forty-foot Road, when he was accosted by a man of humble but decent appearance, who kept by his side whilst addressing him. "I came out, sir," said this individual, "early in the day, on an appointment with Mr. Herbert, of Tivoli Terrace, as he promised to let me have a few pounds that he owes me; but I found that he had to start suddenly for Bray on some particular business, and he left word for me that he would be back about ten o'clock, so I have to wait: and I declare, sir, that I had only enough when I left home to get a return ticket, and I have not had a bit to eat since morning. Might I ask you for as much as would get me a crust of bread and a mug of milk." On reaching George's Street, the gentleman handed him a sixpence, and received the expression of an earnest prayer for his earthly prosperity and eternal happiness. On the following evening, the gentleman arrived at the same time, proceeded up the same road, and not being recognized, was accosted by the same person, who told the same tale, concluding with a wish for "the crust and mug of milk." A constable happened to be in view, and the hungry applicant was arrested and charged as a vagrant beggar. He had two ten-pound notes and three of five pounds, with eighteen shillings in silver and copper coin. The vagrant stated his name to be Richard Bryan, and a most extraordinary document was found on him. It was soiled and partly torn, but it was signed, "Your loving brother, John Bryan," was dated, "Borris, August 30th, 1843," and contained a suggestion which was fully acted on, and which I could not allow to escape my recollection. Here it is:—

"We have got in the barley all right, and we are going at the oats to-morrow. I had to lend the horses to-day to Mr. Kimmis. I couldn't refuse, for you know he is a good warrant to obleege us when we want a turn. Nolan is bothering about the rent. He is very cross. You must see and make it out for him, if you were even to beg for it."

One month's imprisonment, with hard labour, provided the mendicant with some "crusts" and "mugs of milk" at the cost of the county. The delinquent did not, I believe, resume his solicitations within our district. The office sergeant who escorted him, with some other prisoners, to Kilmainham, told the clerk at Kingstown on the following morning, that Mr. Bryan stigmatized my decision as "most uncharitable and disgusting."

I did not find mendicancy so persistent in any part of the police district as in Kingstown. If a vagrant was brought up and punished for begging in Rathmines or the Pembroke township, or if the detection occurred at Inchicore, or in the more respectable parts of the city, it was not at all probable that the beggar would be soon found again in the same locality. The Kingstown vagrants, as soon as they were discharged from Kilmainham, generally started off to return and resume their solicitations at the piers and jetty, or about the streets and terraces, which were more devoted to healthful recreation than to professional or commercial affairs. I have no doubt that mendicants from distant places receive more at Kingstown or Bray, from visitors whom they recognize, or who recognize them, than would be given to them if both parties were at home. A lady with whom I was personally acquainted, and whose family residence was near Carlow, has several times, in my presence, given sixpences to beggars who belonged to her own neighbourhood, and I have heard her tell them that Kingstown was a better and more lucky place for them than ever they would find Carlow to be. I shall close my observations on street begging, by deliberately stating from my personal and official experience, that not one penny can be given to any mendicant on our thoroughfares in real, efficient, and merited charity. I would now warn my readers against another kind of begging, which avails itself of very systematic and elaborate means, and sometimes displays considerable educational acquirements, namely, written applications to charitable individuals to alleviate dire distress or succour unmerited misfortune. I know that this system is extensively practised in London, and I have heard that it is reviving in Dublin. I use the term "reviving," because it was completely crushed here in 1844 by the intelligence and activity of the detective division. At that time it was discovered that a confederacy of impostors had been formed in Bridgefoot Street, and that the members of this nefarious association were levying contributions on all in whose dispositions they had ascertained charity and credulity to be united. Forty-one of them were arrested and brought before me, and I committed them for trial on charges of "conspiring to defraud, obtaining money under false pretences, and forgery at common law." They were, however, consigned to Newgate, exactly at the time when the State prosecutions against O'Connell had been commenced; and it was the received opinion in police quarters that they owed their escape—for they were not prosecuted—to a feeling on the part of the attorney-general of that period, that all his attention was demanded in bringing down the eagle, and that none of his energies could be spared to scatter a flock of kites. But they were not relinquished by the detectives, and were brought in detail under the castigation of the law until the confederacy was broken up. Their begging letters and petitions were addressed to all whom they considered likely to yield the slightest attention to their requests. These productions were termed in their slang "Slums." One impostor represented that she was a clergyman's widow, with four female children, the eldest only eleven years of age; that her pious, exemplary, and most affectionate partner had died of malignant fever, contracted whilst whispering the words of Christian consolation to the departing sinner, and imparting the joyful assurance, that the life flickering away, the socket glimmer of a mere earthly light, would be rekindled in a lamp of everlasting duration and unvarying brilliancy. That resigned to her suffering, and adoring the hand from which she had experienced chastening, she was not forbidden to hope that the blessed spirit of charity would be manifested in her relief, and in shielding her helpless, artless babes from the privations of distress in their infancy, and from the still more fearful danger of being, in advanced youth, exposed to the snares of sin and its depraving consequences. A contribution, however small, addressed to Mrs. ——, at No. — Bridgefoot Street, Dublin, would, it was respectfully hoped, be accorded by Lord ——, or Mr. or Mrs. ——, whose well-known, though unostentatious benevolence, must plead the poor widow's apology for such an intrusion. Another was an unfortunate man, who for many years had earned a respectable livelihood as a commercial agent, and supported a numerous and interesting family by his industry and intelligence, but having unfortunately been in the County of Tipperary, when a contested election was in progress, he unguardedly expressed a wish for the success of the Conservative candidate, and although not a voter, he was set upon by a horde of savage ruffians, and beaten so as to produce paralysis of his lower extremities, and that now nothing remained for him but to entreat the humane consideration of one who could not, if the public testimony of his, or her generous disposition, was to be credited, refuse to sympathize with a parent whose helplessness compelled him to witness, with unavailing anguish, the poignant miseries of the offspring he had hoped, by his honest exertions, to have supported and reared, without submitting to the galling necessity of soliciting that aid which nothing but the most absolute destitution could reconcile him to implore. A military lady announced herself as the widow of color-sergeant Robert Maffett, who having served faithfully for twenty-three years, the four last having been in India, had been severely wounded in a decisive battle in Scinde, and when invalided and pensioned, was unfortunately drowned at Blackwall, in consequence of the boat which was conveying him ashore being accidentally upset. That she and her eight poor orphans had no resource on reaching her native city, where she found that all her relations had died or emigrated, and where she was friendless and alone, but to throw herself upon the charitable feelings of one whose character emboldened her to hope that the humble appeal of the soldier's widow, for herself and her poor orphans, would not be unavailing. These and a thousand other slums were manufactured in Bridgefoot Street, alias Dirty Lane, not an unsuitable name for the locale of such proceedings, and they were invariably accompanied by lists of subscriptions, and magisterial or municipal attestations, admirably got up in the first style of forgery. In the first case to which I have adverted, the "hapless widow" succeeded in getting five pounds from the Lord Chief Justice of Ireland (Pennefather). In the instance of the "military widow," Lady Blakeney was lightened of three pounds. Another slum was circulated by a scoundrel who represented himself to be the son of a gentleman in the south of Ireland, of an old family, and of the pristine faith; that he had been educated at Louvain, had an ardent wish to become a Catholic clergyman, and that one of the most distinguished dignitaries of that church was inclined to ordain him, but his father had died in debt, without leaving him the means of providing even the most humble outfit for such a vocation. One of his missives produced the effect of relieving an alderman's lady of five pounds sterling, which the excellent and worthy matron piously suggested might be useful in providing the embryo priest with vestments.

This confederacy was not confined to Dublin. Its branches extended through Leinster, Connaught, Munster, and in almost every important town in England its connections were established. It is, however, very curious that the Scots and our Northern countrymen were left comparatively free from its attacks. Why? Is it because the rascally crew conceived the natives of Scotland and Ulster to be more cautious or less benevolent than their respective Southern neighbours? The reader may judge for himself; but swindlers are not, in general, very wrong in their estimate of character or disposition.

The head-quarters of the society were in an obscure country town in an inland county of Ireland, and there the materiel of the association was seized, according to my recollection, in April, 1844. There was found at the source of their system, a chest of very elegant manufacture, and containing, in compartments, admirably executed counterfeits of the public seals of Cork, Waterford, Limerick, Sligo, Drogheda, Dublin, Liverpool, Bristol, Hamburg, Havre, and New York. These were used to seal forged certificates and attestations, which were transmitted for use to more populous places; but the seals were cunningly kept in a remote, and for a long time, an unsuspected locality.

CHAPTER XI. CARRIAGE COURT CASES—DUBLIN CARMEN.

When I assumed, by an arrangement with my colleagues, the regulation of the public vehicles, and the disposal of complaints in the Carriage Court at the Head office, announced my inflexible determination to cancel the license of any driver who was proved to have been drunk while in charge of his vehicle on the public thoroughfare required the fullest proof of the offence, to whom I awarded the highest punishment. I am happy to say that such cases were by no means frequent, but there were some, and they generally occurred at funerals. A Rathfarnham carman was summoned before me and was convicted, not only on the clearest evidence, but by his own admission. He was about my own age, and I remembered that when I was about eighteen years old, I was one day swimming in a quarry-hole at Kimmage, where the water was at least twenty feet deep, and was suddenly seized with very severe cramps in my left leg. I kept myself afloat and shouted for help, but I was unable to make for the bank, when a young fellow who had been swimming, and was dressing himself, hastily threw off his clothes, plunged into the water, and pushed me before him to the side of the quarry. He saved my life, and I now beheld him in the person of the convicted carman. I related the circumstance from the magisterial bench, and then cancelled his licence, and remarked to those who were assembled, that when I treated the preserver of my life so strictly, others could not expect the slightest lenity at my hands if they transgressed in the same way. The poor fellow left the court in great dejection, and when my duties for the day were over, I dropped in to my friend Colonel Browne, the Commissioner of Police, and mentioned the circumstance to him. He said, "You cancelled his licence, but I can give him a new one, and he shall get it to-morrow." The licence was accordingly renewed, without causing me the slightest dissatisfaction.

Most of my readers are aware that the Richmond Bridewell, which is now the common gaol of the City of Dublin, is situated near Harold's Cross; and that on its front is inscribed, "Cease to do evil. Learn to do well." A carman named Doyle, who lived at Blackrock, was summoned before me on charges of violent conduct, abusive language, and extortion. He was a man of very good character, and the complainant was a person of the worst reputation, who had been convicted of several misdemeanors of a very disgraceful nature. Frauds and falsehoods were attributed to him as habitual and inveterate practices. He was sworn, and then he described Doyle as having been most abusive and insulting in his language, as having threatened to kick him unless he paid much more than the rightful fare, and as having extorted an extra shilling by such means. The defendant denied the charges totally, and declared that the accusation was false and malicious. He then asked me to have Inspector O'Connor and Sergeant Power called and examined as to the complainant's character, and whether he was deserving of being believed on his oath. From my own personal knowledge of the complainant's reputation, I willingly acceded to the demand, and desired that the required witnesses should be called from the upper court, where they were both attending. Whilst we were waiting their appearance, Doyle made a speech; it was very brief, and I took it down verbatim; he said:—

"Your worship, if I get any punishment on this man's oath, it will be a wrong judgment. The Recorder knows him well, and he wouldn't sintence a flea to be kilt for back-biting upon his evidence. He has took out all his degrees in the Harold's Cross college; and if, instead of sending me to the Cease to do evil hotel, you had himself brought there, the door would open for him of its own accord, for there is not a gaol in Ireland that would refuse him. He swore hard against me, but thanks be to God, he did not swear that I was an honest man, for there is nobody whose character could stand under the weight of his commendation."

On the evidence of O'Connor and Power, I dismissed the charge, and subsequently spoke of the case, and repeated Doyle's speech in festive society. When Boucicault produced his interesting Irish drama of Arra-na-pogue at the Theatre Royal, I was one of his gratified audience, and was greatly surprised at hearing the speech which had been originally delivered before me in the Carriage Court by the Blackrock carman, addressed to the court-martial by Shawn-na-poste, to induce a disbelief of the informer by whom he was accused. I subsequently ascertained that it had been given to Boucicault by one who could fully appreciate its originality and strength, my gifted friend, Dr. Tisdall.

The Dublin carmen are far from being faultless, but, as a class, I found them generally very honest. Whilst I discharged the carriage business, I knew instances of considerable sums of money and articles of value, which had been left in their vehicles, being brought in and delivered up to the police. I do not know how such property, if unclaimed, is now disposed of; but in my time, I invariably, after the expiration of twelve months, had it delivered, subject to charges for advertising, &c., to the person who brought it. I may mention one very extraordinary incident. Before the opening of the Great Southern and Western Railway, the Grand Canal Company ran passenger boats to the towns of Athy and Ballinasloe. A boat for the latter place left Portobello each day at two o'clock. A Rathmines man, who was owner and driver of a covered car, was returning home one morning about 11 o'clock, when he was hailed, in Dame Street, by a respectably dressed man, who engaged him to drive about town, and to be paid by the hour. The hirer stopped at several establishments and bought parcels of woollen, linen, plaid, and cotton goods, as also a hat and a pair of boots, for all of which he paid in cash. There was merely room for the hirer in the vehicle along with his ample purchases. Finally, he directed the driver to go to Portobello, adding that he intended to leave town by the passage-boat at two o'clock. When the car arrived at the end of Lennox Street, the driver was ordered to stop. The hirer alighted and told the driver to go round by the front of the hotel and wait for him at the boat. The order was obeyed, and the carman waited until the boat started, but the hirer did not appear. The driver apprized the police of the circumstance, and, at their suggestion, he attended the two boats which left on the following day, but no one came to claim the goods. They were brought to the police stores and advertised, the hirer was described and sought for in various hotels and lodging-houses, but without any result. It was ascertained at the establishments where the parcels were purchased that they cost twenty-seven pounds, and the carman ultimately got them on paying some small charges. He had not been paid his fare, nevertheless he was not dissatisfied. A rare case amongst his fraternity.

When it was proposed to have a hackney fare for sixpence, "for a drive with not more than two passengers, direct, and without any delay on the part of the hirer, from any place within the municipal boundary to any other place within the same," I refused to sanction such a regulation. I considered that it would, in many instances, be a most inadequate payment for the employment of a vehicle. I suggested that the fifteen municipal wards should form three districts of five wards each, and designated, Southern, Middle, Northern. I proposed that a drive entirely in one of those districts should be a sixpenny fare, that from South or North to Middle, or vice versa, should be eightpence, and that North to South, or vice versa, should be tenpence. My suggestions were not even considered, for the carmen published advertisements that they were desirous of giving cheap locomotion to the people of Dublin, but that the magistrate refused to allow them to take small fares. I sent for the "runners," as the attendants on the stands were termed, and told them that I should no longer object to the sixpenny fare which was proposed. I added that it was the carmen's own act, and, to use a homely phrase, "as they had made the bed, nothing remained for me but to compel them to lie in it." The by-law was no sooner in operation than numerous cases of its violation were brought before me. I fined each, if I thought it fully proved, in the maximum penalty of two pounds. One delinquent was extremely urgent to have a smaller penalty inflicted. I recognized him as having been present when I used the phrase which I have quoted, and reminded him that he had been fully warned. He replied, "Yes, yer worship, we did make the bed, and you promised to make us lie in it, but we never thought that it would be so heavily quilted."

I held that any stop or deviation from the direct line between two places, at the hirer's instance, voided the sixpenny contract, and entitled the driver to additional remuneration. I often availed myself of a sixpenny lift, and was taking one in which I passed the Shelbourne Hotel, in front of which there was a "hazard," or branch stand for five or six cars or cabs. It was considered very objectionable for a disengaged vehicle to stop alongside a hazard and thus obstruct the carriage way. I observed a jarvey committing this offence, and desired my driver to "hold a moment." I said to the offender, "If a constable takes your number for obstructing, you will not escape for less than ten shillings." I then bid my man to go on. He replied, "Yes, yer worship, and it would serve that fellow right to have him punished, for he is after putting your worship in for another sixpence to me."

Two of my daughters had gone to make some purchases at the establishment of Messrs. Todd and Burns, in Mary Street. They were engaged to spend the afternoon at a house in Leinster Street. Rain was falling, and the elder beckoned to the driver of a covered car who happened to be passing. They got into it, and desired him to go to No. 14 Leinster Street. When they arrived, the elder let her sister pass before her into the house, and then she offered a sixpence to the carman. He declined to take it, and said that she should give "the father or mother of that." She asked how much did he demand? and the reply was "a shilling at least." She then said that she would get half-a-crown changed in the house, and bring him a shilling, but she added "that she would speak to papa about it." "Musha, who is papa?" said he. "Mr. Porter," was the reply. She went in, got the change, and came back with the shilling, but he was gone. He preferred giving her a gratuitous drive to having my opinion elicited in reference to the transaction.

A cavalry regiment, if I recollect rightly it was the "Scots Greys," occupied the barracks at Island Bridge in 1854. One day an outside jaunting-car was waiting in the barrack-yard, and the driver was standing on the step. He was a few yards from the quarters of a Captain B——, who was reputed to have a private income of £15,000 per annum. The officer was amusing himself with a little gun, which discharged peas and leaden pellets by detonating caps with greater force than the captain was aware of. He shot at the carman, and the pellet passed through his overcoat and reached his back, giving him a smart blow, but without penetrating the skin. The driver was looking round, and expressing his displeasure, when he received a second shot, which, striking the calf of his leg, lodged in the flesh. He instantly whipped his horse, drove rapidly away, and betook himself to the Meath Hospital, where the shot was extracted. He summoned the officer before me, and when the facts were stated, I expressed an opinion that the act was most unjustifiable, that a wanton and very severe assault had been committed, but that I thought it originated more in a spirit of foolish fun than in any wish to injure the complainant, and as it was a misdemeanor, the parties might come to an understanding, which would render further proceedings unnecessary.

The captain accosted the carman—"Will you take one hundred pounds?"

"Of coorse, I will, yer honor, and I'll never say another word, even if you war to shoot me agin."

Two fifty-pound notes were handed to the delighted complainant, who then said to me—

"The business is settled, yer worship, and I can only say that when I was hit, although it gave me a great start, I felt satisfied it was a rale gintleman that shot me."

I advised the captain to discontinue the sport of jarvey-shooting. Cox complimented him on his generosity, adding that he ought to have got a large covey of such game for the price he paid. I regret to add that the money did not improve its recipient. He relapsed into habits of idleness and drunkenness, lost his licence through misconduct, and was reduced to complete destitution.

A gentleman, who lived in Baggot Street, came to Exchange Court one morning for the purpose of reporting that his coach-house had been entered, as he believed, by means of false keys, and that a set of cushions, adapted to an outside jaunting-car, had been abstracted. He described them as white cord material with green borders and seams. A detective mentioned that he had seen cushions of the description on a car which had been brought for inspection, and the licence of which had been suspended on account of its unseemly condition. The car was then in Dame Street, and a further enquiry eventuated in the discovery on it of the articles which had been supposed to have been abstracted. The owner of the car was a brother of the gentleman's servant who had lent his master's cushions to pass the inspection. The car licence was cancelled; but I believe that similar tricks were frequently played on similar occasions.

For upwards of ten years I have been estranged from the Dublin Police Courts. I cannot speak as to the habits and characteristics of the carmen of the present time. I have already stated that, according to my experience and recollection, they were honest and sober. I can add that I knew many instances in which members of their class manifested generosity, kindness, and courage. A man belonging to New Street stand went to the fair of St. Doulagh's, and expended his savings in the purchase of a fine-looking horse that appeared in a sound condition, but on whose leg there was a slight scar. In about a week after the fair, the beast exhibited some very extraordinary symptoms, and at last became most furious and unruly. He dashed into a shop window, and injured himself so much as to make it necessary to kill him. It was the opinion of a veterinary practitioner that he had been bitten by some rabid animal, and had taken hydrophobia. The other carmen promptly subscribed a sum sufficient to defray the damage done to the shop, and to procure another horse for the man who vainly sought to ascertain the former owner of the one that he bought at St. Doulagh's. I am aware that previous to the establishment of the fire brigade in Dublin, the drivers on a car-stand would leave two or three of their number to mind their horses and vehicles, and apply themselves to work the engines and extinguish fires in their vicinity. Many acts of heroism on the part of carmen have occurred on our quays and at Kingstown, in saving, at their own imminent risk, persons in danger of drowning.

Having noticed some very good qualities, I must remark on the scarcity amongst them, according to my experience, of veracity. When a carman was summoned by a constable he almost invariably met the accusation by a direct contradiction. If called on to answer for being shabbily dressed or dirty in his apparel, he bought or borrowed a good suit of clothes, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and stated boldly to me that he was just in the same attire when the policeman "wrote him." If the summons was for being absent from his beast and vehicle, he insisted that he was holding "a lock of hay" to his horse all the time. If the complaint was for furious driving, the defence was that "the baste was dead lame, that it was just after taking up a nail, and was on three legs when he was 'wrote.'" If it was alleged that the horse was in a wretched condition, and unfit to ply for public accommodation, he expressed his surprise that any fault should be found with a horse that could "rowl" four to the Curragh and back without "turning a hair." Whatever statement was made for the defence, it evinced imaginative power, for the plain, dull truth was hardly ever permitted the slightest admixture in the excuse offered. Mr. Hughes, whom I have mentioned in some earlier pages, was in the carriage-court one day, on an occasion when an old man named Pat Markey, formerly belonging to the Baggot Street stand, made a statement utterly at variance with all probability, and directly opposed to the evidence adduced against him: however, on the prosecutor's own showing the case was dismissed, as the charge was not legally sustained. On leaving the court, Hughes asked Pat why he did not tell the truth at first, as it would have been better for him; upon which the other exclaimed—"Musha, cock him up with the truth! that's more than I ever towld a magistrate yit." A delinquent seldom mentioned the offence for which he was punished; he generally substituted for it, the inducement which led to its commission. If he went into a tobacconist's, and while he made his purchase, his horse moved on, and was stopped by a constable, who summoned the driver, the latter when asked what he was fined for would reply, "for taking a blast of the pipe." If, on a Saturday evening, he betook himself to a barber's shop to have the week's growth taken off his chin, and incurred a penalty for being absent from his vehicle, he said, "the polis wrote him" for getting himself shaved. And on Sunday morning, if a devotional feeling prompted him to get "a mouthful of prayers," whilst his beast remained without any person to mind it, upon the public thoroughfare, he expressed his indignation at a consequent fine "for going to Mass."

I found it impossible to adapt the law, as it existed in my time, so as effectually to compel the carmen to keep themselves in cleanly, respectable attire, or their vehicles in proper order. When summoned and fined, their comments evinced the inutility of the punishment. I have said to one, "Your car has been proved to be in a most disgraceful state, and I shall fine you ten shillings." The reply has been, "I thank yer worship, shure that fine will help me to mend it." I have told another that I would suspend his licence for a month; but this only elicited a request for an order to admit him and his family to the poorhouse during the suspension. If the complaints preferred by the police did not effect much good, those brought forward by private individuals were, in their general tendency, and as a class of cases, decidedly injurious. When extortion, violence, insolence, or an infraction of duty provoked an aggrieved person to summon, the usual course was for the delinquent to send his wife to the complainant's residence, or sometimes to borrow a wife, if he had not one of his own, to beg him off. In the case of a young lad being the offender, the intercession was managed by his mother, whether the maternity was real or pretended. The afflicted female beset the door, and applied to all who passed in or out "to save her and her childher, or her poor gorsoon, from the waves of the world," that Mr. Porter was a "rale Turk," and if the poor fellow was brought before him, he would be destroyed "out of a face." A riddance of such importunities formed no slight inducement to forego the prosecution, and consequently the majority of such cases were dismissed for the non-appearance of the complainant; but sometimes the fellow who had been "begged off" came forward, stated that he was ready to answer the summons, and insisted on his loss of time being recompensed by costs. I must admit that I always complied with such applications, and I have enjoyed frequently the vain remonstrances of the forgiving party, who, for his mistaken and expensive lenity, acquired nothing but the wholesome warning not to summon a Dublin driver without appearing to prosecute.

Although the carmen were rather fond of getting more than their fare, they became the dupes and victims of dishonest and tricky employers, and, to use their own term, were "sconced" much more frequently than was generally supposed. The Four Courts constituted, in my time, the frequent scene of such rascality. There was seldom a day in Term that some poor carman was not left "without his costs" by a plausible fellow, who alighting at one door, and passing through the hall, went out at another, leaving the driver with the assurance, that "he would be back in a minute," to find that he had been employed, for perhaps an hour or two previously by a heartless blackguard, who desired no better fun than "sconcing" him. I believe that a regulation has been since adopted which authorises a driver engaged by time to require payment in advance. I consider it a very great improvement.

CHAPTER XII. A GRATUITOUS JAUNT—THE PORTUGUESE POSTILLION—MISCELLANEOUS SUMMONSES.

A young woman who was servant in a house in Harcourt Street in which two students resided, had an altercation with one of them, which eventuated in a summons and a cross-summons before me. It appeared that the young man had imputed dishonesty to her, and she had been very indignant and abusive towards her accuser. He called his fellow-student as a witness, to prove that the girl threw a bottle at him, and that she freely used the terms of swindler, blackguard, &c. The charge of dishonesty was unfounded, and the encounter between the parties terminated without any personal injury to either, but the damsel cross-examined the witness in reference to a transaction, and elicited a mode of procuring a jaunt across the city, which I hope that I shall not lessen the reader's interest in my observations and reminiscences of the Dublin carmen by briefly detailing. The woman acquired the knowledge of it by having overheard a conversation between the young men.

They had been invited to an early evening party at Summer Hill. They were not inclined to walk such a distance, and neither of them found it convenient to pay for a vehicle. At last the one who subsequently complained of being termed a swindler and blackguard said that he would get a covered car without payment. Accordingly, having walked to the nearest "hazard," he desired his comrade to get into a car, and also seated himself, he then directed the driver to proceed "to Santry." "Santry!" explained the astonished jarvey; "is it joking you are? D——l an inch I'll go to Santry to-night. Get out of my car if you plaze, the baste is tired, and I won't go." "My good fellow," was the answer, "I shall not get out, and you may as well get on at once." "By gorra, if you don't get out, I'll pull you out," said the carman. "If you lay a finger on me," answered the occupant, "I will resist you as well as I can, and I shall prosecute you for an assault." It was a bad business. The carman changed his tactics. "Why, yer honor," he mildly urged, "it is an unrasonable thing to ax a man to go to such a place even in the day time, for there's nothin but murdher and robbery on that b——y road, an' if I do go, we'll be all kilt, and you'll be robbed into the bargain; shure you haven't right sinse to think of such a jaunt." "My friend," said the fare, "there may be something in what you say, but I shall call at a house on Summer Hill and get firearms for myself and my companion, and with two case of pistols I fear no robbers." The carman grumbled, but he had a sturdy customer, so he mounted his seat and drove on. When they came to Summer Hill he was desired to pull up, and the two sparks alighted, assuring him that they would immediately procure the arms and resume their journey. As soon as they were inside the hall-door, the jarvey plied his whip, and rattled off as fast as he could, congratulating himself that he had escaped a drive to Santry, and leaving the two scamps to enjoy the joke of having got a gratuitous jaunt from Harcourt Street to Summer Hill.

There was at the time of my appointment to the magistracy, a car proprietor in Dublin, whose name was Bittner. His father had been a sergeant in the King's German Legion, had been invalided, and died in Dublin about the year 1810, leaving one son, who was then sixteen years of age. He was tolerably educated, intelligent, cleanly, active, and well-looking. A gentleman who was in delicate health, engaged the lad as his personal attendant, and was soon after advised by his physicians to betake himself to the south of Europe, in the hope of checking the progress of pulmonary disease. Lisbon was the only available place to the invalid, and he proceeded there, along with his youthful servant. He lived in Portugal for nine or ten years, and was so well satisfied with the care and attention of Bittner that he left him a legacy of £250. The gentleman's body was directed by his will to be interred in Dublin, whither it was conveyed by the faithful domestic. Bittner did not squander his money, neither did he become inactive. He was fond of horses, and of equestrian exercise, and engaged in the service of the late Mr. Quin, of Bray; then the proprietor of an extensive hotel and first-rate posting establishment. The romantic scenery of Wicklow was then, as it must ever be, highly appreciated, and Quin's chaises conveyed many visitors to the varied and numerous scenes of picturesque beauty. On one occasion Bittner was directed to bring a chaise to the door, to take two foreign gentlemen through the Glen of the Downs, and on to Dunran. The travellers were quite unacquainted with the English language, and in the hotel, had recourse to signs and self-attendance as much as possible. They got into the chaise, having previously pointed out on a map to Mr. Quin, the route they wished to take. On arriving at the gate of Dunran, they made signs to stop the vehicle, and alighted. They then began to bewail to each other, their ignorance of English, and their consequent inability to acquire information as to the scenery, residences, and other particulars usually interesting to tourists. They spoke Portuguese, and Bittner immediately accosted them in their own language, told them that he would procure a person to mind his horses, and that he would then take them up to the "View Rock," and conduct them to each of the many places worthy of their observation. They expressed the highest gratification, and availed themselves of his services. As they proceeded, he told them that Mr. Quin's was the greatest and best regulated establishment in the world. That there were postillions kept there who had been procured from every European nation. The French postillions had gone with a party of their countrymen to the "Seven Churches," and two Germans and one Italian had left, early in the morning, for the Vale of Ovoca. The Spaniard was gone to Luggelaw. "I," said he, "am the Portuguese postillion, I am delighted to have you, and can take you to all the beautiful places in Wicklow, but I am afraid that I shall soon have to leave this employment, for we hardly ever have a Portuguese gentleman at the hotel, so my chances are very poor." The travellers, driven by Bittner for about a-week, went to all the delightful scenery of Wicklow, and when departing, gave him a couple of sovereigns. In about three months after, Mr. Quin received a parcel in which there were two nicely bound volumes, and a complimentary letter, sent from Lisbon by Don Pedro Cabrito. With some difficulty he got the letter translated, and also a couple of pages which had been turned down to attract his attention. He was then made aware that the Portuguese traveller accorded the highest praise to the comfort and elegance of his establishment, and also to his anxiety to convenience his foreign visitors, by keeping postillions, who, in the aggregate, were acquainted with all European languages. The book also made honorable mention of the "Portuguese postillion," Bittner. The latter, as I have already stated, became a car proprietor. His vehicles were cleanly and neat, his drivers well conducted, and a complaint against him was of very rare occurrence. On one occasion, after I had heard an explanation from his driver, he asked my leave to say "a word or two," to which I replied, "With pleasure, Mr. Bittner, I shall hear you, provided you do not speak Portuguese." "Oh! your worship," said he, "I see you know that story. I suppose Mr. Quin told you." His supposition was correct.

A FEW HYPERBOLES.

One of the clerks in the police-court of Liverpool got leave of absence in, as I best remember, 1845. He came to Dublin with some other young Englishmen for a few days of recreation. Curiosity induced him to visit our police-courts, where our clerks received him with fraternal courtesy. He told Mr. Cox that he and three others took an outside car, for a suburban drive. It happened to be on Corpus Christi day, and they were going along Rathmines road, just as the religious procession incident to the festival was moving round the extensive court outside of the Roman Catholic chapel there. They directed the driver to stop, and then stood up on the seats to obtain a full view. Almost immediately one of them exclaimed, "Well, that beats the devil!" The carman touched his hat to the exclaimer and replied, "Yes, your honor, that's what it's for." I have heard the late Judge Halliburton (Sam Slick the clock-maker) say, that he asked a carman what was the reason for building the Martello towers? and that the interrogated party told him, "he supposed it was, like the round towers, to puzzle posterity."

The Spaniard, who described the rain as so heavy, that "it wetted him to the marrow," was not so poetical or forcible in his hyperbole as some of our jarveys have been. I recollect reading in a little work, published many years ago, and entitled "Sketches of Ireland," that when a gentleman complained of the choking dust of the Rock road, and declared that he did not think it possible for a road to be so dusty, his driver remarked, "It's thrue for yer honor! but this road bates all others for dust, for, by all accounts, there was dust on this road the day after Noah's flood." A lady who resided at Chapelizod was wont to give a carman whom she frequently employed a glass of grog, along with his fare, at the conclusion of each engagement. However, she became too sparing of the spirits, or too generous of the water, but the grog eventually became so weak, that its recipient criticised it, of course with an oath, by asserting, that "if you threw half-a-pint of whisky over Essex Bridge, you might take up as strong grog as that at the Lighthouse."

MISCELLANEOUS SUMMONSES.

According to my recollections of the summons cases of a police-court, apart from carriage complaints, I feel justified in remarking on the mild and forgiving tendencies of the men, and the vindictive rancour of the women of Dublin. From recent conversations with police functionaries, I am disposed to believe that the present time differs in no material respect from the past. The man claims the protection of the law; "he has no desire to injure the parties he complains of, but he wants them bound to the peace, just to keep them quiet." The woman wants "the coorse of the law, and to have her adversary chastised and kept from killing the whole world, like a murdhering vagabone as she is; it's no use in talkin', but the street will never be quiet until she gets some little confinement just to larn her manners." Summonses for abusive language, or as the fair complainants term it, "street scandal," are, perhaps, the most numerous cases as a class; and on the hearing of them, there is frequently elicited an amount of vituperation beyond anything that Billingsgate could attempt to supply. In almost every case a total absence of chastity is imputed as a matter of course; and if a foreigner would only believe both sides of a police summons-book, he would be forced to the conclusion that chastity was a virtue rarely found amongst the lower order of Dublin females. Yet the very contrary is the fact: furious in their resentments, uncontrollable in their invectives, and inveterately addicted to assassination of character, they are, in general, extremely chaste; and attest the value they attach to female virtue by invariably imputing its absence to their opponents. Sometimes, indeed, a novel term of reproach arouses volcanic fury, and an eruption of indignation is excited by the most extraordinary and unmeaning epithet. I cannot forget a fish-vendor from Patrick Street vociferating to me, that if her enemy was not sent off to Grangegorman at wanst, her life and her child's life (for she was enceinte) would be lost. "But what did she say?" was my query. "What did she say! yer worship, what did she say! Why she came down forenenst the whole world at the corner of Plunket Street, and called me 'a b——y ould excommunicated gasometer.'" I may mention that as female invective generally ascribed inconsistency to its opponent, so the male scolds—happily not very numerous—had their favorite term of reproach; and when they wished to destroy a man's reputation, they designated him—a thief?—no; a robber?—no; a murderer?—no; they satiated all their malignity in calling him "an informer."

Disputes between manufacturers and their artisans or workmen were very rarely the subject of magisterial investigation. There was, however, one case disposed of by me in which a comparison was instituted of a most extraordinary nature. A journeyman summoned an employer for abruptly dismissing him, without giving him, according to the usage of the trade, "a week's notice or a week's wages." I shall not mention the name, residence, or trade of the defendant: but I must say that his countenance exhibited the greatest obliquity of vision that I ever observed in a human face. All the trite phrases commonly applied to squints would fail adequately to describe the tendency of his eyes to avoid seeing the same object at the same time. He admitted having summarily discharged the workman, and alleged that the complainant had totally spoiled an article which he had been directed to make in a hexagon form, and conformable to a pattern supplied, and had produced a piece of work in which shape and proportion had been totally disregarded. The complainant insisted that the work had been properly done, and in complete conformity with the model, and he asked why it was not produced, so that I might judge, by viewing it, whether it deserved to be condemned as crooked and shapeless. I suggested a postponement of the case, and the production of the condemned article. The defendant, who was rather excited, replied, "Your worship, I was so vexed when it was brought in, that I threw it out of the window of the finishing room into the yard, and it was smashed to pieces, but I am ready to swear, in this or any other court, that it was as crooked as the two eyes in my head." The laugh in which I indulged, at hearing this comparison, was lost in the risibility of all present. I suggested that the parties might come to an understanding, and that the complainant might be afforded another opportunity of making an article perfectly conformable to the pattern, and without any resemblance to anything else. This was agreed to, and they departed reconciled.

CHAPTER XIII. DOGS—WHIPPING YOUNG THIEVES—GARDEN ROBBERS—REFORMATORIES—APOLOGIES FOR VIOLENCE—TRESPASSERS ON A NUNNERY.

The statute, passed since my retirement, to enforce and regulate the registration of dogs, has relieved the magistrates from having to dispose, in the course of each year, of some hundreds of summonses against the owners, or reputed owners of dogs which were found "roaming at large on the public thoroughfare, without log or muzzle." In my time, I never found a summons in reference to a dog, at the instance of a constable, entered indiscriminately with other complaints. If the first case was a canine one, I might feel assured that it would be followed by forty or fifty others of the same description, and that the dogs would monopolise the day. It appeared to me that the police were occasionally directed to give special attention, for two or three days, to the unlogged and unmuzzled curs, and thus produce what our clerks used to term "a dog board." The appearance of a male defendant was extremely rare. The persons complained of were generally working tradesmen or labourers, who, on receiving a summons, directed the wife to attend the court, as they could not afford to lose their time. When a defendant was called, his female substitute, eager to have the first word, answered to the man's name; but what she said referred to the animal. A mere listener might imagine that the defendants were either guilty of some atrocious offences, or were subjected, unheard and untried, to a fearful, fatal doom; for instance—

"Call James Foley."

"He's drounded, yer worship, we drounded him off Wood Quay, the very evening that we got the summons, he wasn't logged or muzzled, but he is dead now, and the policeman 'ill never see him again."

"You are fined two and sixpence."

"Oh! yer worship, that's very hard, and he dead."

"Call Peter Casey."

"He's hung, sir; he was very owld and stupid, and hadn't a tooth in his head, so we hung him, not to be bother'd with him any more," &c.

"Call Patrick Dempsey."

"Plaze yer worship, he's dead, and if the polisman knew him, he'll know that he's dead. We had him hung and got him skinned, and I have his skin here to show you."

Perhaps another case would disclose the appalling fact, that Denis Reilly was "pisened by a young doctor that we got to sponge his nose with some Prooshun stuff, and it kilt him." Such calamities have been averted from the Foleys, Caseys, Dempseys, and Reillys of the present time, and the magistrates have been relieved from having to listen to such murderous details from the lips of the gentler sex by the magical effect of canine registration.

WHIPPING YOUNG THIEVES.

In a few years after my appointment, a statute passed authorising the infliction of corporal punishment on boys convicted of thieving. The Act empowered us to order the offender to be flogged, if we were of opinion that his age did not exceed fourteen years. There was a lad named Lowry, who was an inveterate thief, and who received five or six castigations by my directions. The instrument employed was a birch rod, with which a constable gave the delinquent six heavy lashes. As soon as Lowry appeared before me, he seemed to disregard the details of the charge preferred. There were no protestations of innocence, no admissions of guilt; but the moment he entered, he commenced the loud and continued assertion, "I'm beyant fourteen, I'm beyant fourteen." On each occasion I differed from the opinion so forcibly enunciated, and ordered the application of the birchen correction. Finally, he withdrew from my quarter, and restricted his delinquencies to the B and C divisions. I was informed that he expressed his disgust at my decisions by saying—"If I was to live until I got as grey as the owld rascal himself, he'd still insist that I was not beyant fourteen."

One day there were a number of packages lying in a heap on the floor of a shop in Parliament Street, and rather near the entrance. A label upon each stated the contents to be three pounds of tea, of the finest quality, offered by the proprietor of "The Golden Teapot" to his respected customers, at the unprecedented low price of seven shillings. The parcels were covered with bright tin-foil, and had on each end a large seal in red wax. A detective passing at the opposite side of the street observed a boy stoop forward, just inside the door, and possess himself of one of the packages of "splendid tea." The young thief was seized at once, and brought before me, in about five minutes after he had stolen the article. I ordered him to be taken down stairs, to have six lashes administered, and to be discharged. I then directed the office messenger to run over to the establishment, and tell them to send some person to claim the property. On his return he said that the people were making fun of him, and laughing at the result of the young thief's attempt. I then raised one of the seals slightly with an office knife, and found that the parcel was a dummy, made up for show, and that the contents were sawdust. I told the messenger, when I had closed the seal with another touch of wax, to take it down and give it to the delinquent on his departure, as the owners had not claimed the property. The whipping was just over, and the sufferer issued forth, having under his arm the cause of his punishment, and for which it was to become his consolation. I was standing at the window, and just as he passed the external rails, he stopped suddenly, and proceeded to examine the package. Instantly he tore the cover, and flung up the contents. The pain of the flogging seemed to return with augmented force, and he screamed forth the most vituperative comments on my decision. "It wasn't tay at all. I was beat for sawdust, and there's no law for that. I'll get a letter wrote to the Lord Leftennant, you owld rascal, and he'll larn you the differ between sawdust and tay." Inspector O'Connor told me that the case was very fully discussed amongst the young thieves, and that the general conclusion was, "not to be too ready to steal parcels out of shops, without knowing what was inside of them."

GARDEN ROBBERS.

My immediate predecessors generally resided in Dublin, and they were considered by the proprietors of orchards and gardens in the rural portion of the district, as too lenient to depredators of fruit and vegetables. At the time of my appointment, there was no safety for such crops unless they were closely watched, and during the night, the discharge of firearms, to deter marauders, was almost continuous in Dolphin's Barn, Kilmainham, Harold's Cross, and Crumlin. Any cessation of strict vigilance was certain to produce consequences which might be fairly termed calamitous to those whose fruits and vegetables were depended on for the maintenance of their families. There were many persons who followed garden robbing as their avocation, and the injuries inflicted by them frequently extended to the succeeding year. If they feared interruption, they would tear or cut the branches of the larger fruits, and entire gooseberry and currant bushes would be abstracted, to be picked at leisure. Small fines or short imprisonments had totally failed to check such offences. At the time to which I refer, I resided at Roundtown, and although I had gardens and a fine vinery there, they were never spoliated, so that in adopting towards fruit-stealers stronger measures than they had previously experienced, I was not actuated by any personal feeling. However, I had the birch very liberally used amongst the boys, and the more mature offenders were, when convicted by me, deprived of any opportunity for continuing their depredations on the growing or ripening productions of the season. Personal motives were, nevertheless, sometimes ascribed to me, even by those who were highly pleased with my decisions. A very extensive orchard and garden at Harold's Cross were entered by three habitual thieves, and they were captured whilst hastily filling two sacks with the choicest apples, pears, apricots, &c. They had taken the sacks from premises adjoining, and I convicted them of two distinct offences. Each was sent for four months to Kilmainham, with hard labour. Mr. Cox was engaged in drawing the informations and committals, when the proprietor exclaimed, in a tone of the highest gratification, "Oh! Mr. Cox, is it not a blessing from God that we have now got a magistrate who has a garden of his own?"

Two musicians belonging to a regimental band were observed one night to cross a wall at Inchicore, into a garden abounding with every description of choice fruit. The police were quietly apprised of the offence, and the delinquents were apprehended coming out of the premises precisely at the place where they had entered. They were both Germans. Their pockets were crammed, and each had a handkerchief containing as much as could be bundled in it. They had not taken a peach, apricot, or plum; even the pears and apples were disregarded; and the produce of their daring raid consisted entirely of onions. I committed them for a week, and they were dismissed from the service by the regimental authorities.

REFORMATORIES.

Previous to my retirement from magisterial duty, the offence of fruit-stealing had greatly diminished, and I believe that it does not now attain one-tenth of its former frequency. When the magistrates were empowered to send juvenile thieves to reformatories, corporal punishment ceased to be administered. I preferred having a boy flogged and discharged to sending him to prison, to be kept, at the public expense, in baneful associations. As soon, however, as a reformatory became available, I transmitted the juvenile offenders, after a few days' imprisonment, to the care and instruction which, in all those institutions, have produced most beneficial results. My first consignment to Glencree Reformatory was made under circumstances rather extraordinary.

I was invited by my kind and valued friend, the late Mr. George Evans, of Portrane, to spend a week at his hospitable mansion. Arrangements were made by me with my colleagues to admit of my absence for that time, and that I should take the duty on the Monday of the succeeding week. Accordingly, I came to Dublin from Donabate by an early train, and commenced the custody cases about ten o'clock, a.m. A constable prosecuted a lad whom he had met on Rathmines Road about four o'clock on that morning, carrying a coarse bath-sheet, in which two check shirts, three pairs of cotton socks, and a washing waistcoat were wrapped. The prisoner was charged with having those articles in his possession, they being "reasonably suspected of having been stolen or unlawfully obtained." I called on the prisoner to account to my satisfaction how he came by them. He declined any explanation, and produced a laugh in court by saying "that I would know time enough." I ordered him to be imprisoned for a week, and then to be transmitted to Glencree for three years. On my return home to Roundtown in the evening, I was told that my bath-sheet, nightshirts, &c., had been stolen on the previous night from a bleaching-line in the back yard, over the wall of which my first envoy to Glencree had managed to clamber. The articles did not remain long in the police store.