When Solomon said there was nothing new under the sun, he never knew Lord Normanby. That's a fact, and now to show cause.

No attribute of regal, and consequently it may be inferred of vice-regal personages, have met such universal praise from the world, as the wondrous tact they would seem to possess, regarding the most suitable modes of flattering the pride and gratifying the passions of those they govern.

It happens not unfrequently, that they leave this blessed privilege unused, and give themselves slight pains in its exercise; but should the time come when its exhibition may be deemed fit or necessary, their instinctive appreciation is said never to fail them, and they invariably hit off the great trait of a people at once.

Perhaps it may be the elevated standard on which they are placed, gives them this wondrous coup-d'oeil, and enables them to take wider views than mortals less eminently situated; perhaps it is some old leaven of privileges derivable from right divine. But no matter, the thing is so. Napoleon well knew the temper of Frenchmen in his day, and how certain short words, emblematic of their country's greatness and glory, could fascinate their minds and bend them to his purpose. In Russia, the czar is the head of the church, as of the state, and a mere word from him to one of his people is a treasure above all price. In Holland, a popular monarch taps some forty puncheons of schnapps, and makes the people drunk. In Belgium, he gets up a high mass, and a procession of virgins. In the States, a rabid diatribe against England, and a spice of Lynch Law, are clap-trap. But every land has its own peculiar leaning—to be gratified by some one concession or compliment in preference to every other.

Now, when Lord Normanby came to Ireland, he must have been somewhat puzzled by the very multiplicity of these expectations. It was a regular “embarras de richesses.” There was so much to give, and he so willing to give it!

First, there was discouragement to be dealt out against Protestants—an easy and a pleasant path; then the priests were to be brought into fashion—a somewhat harder task; country gentlemen were to be snubbed and affronted; petty attorneys were to be petted and promoted; all claimants with an “O” to their names were to have something—it looked national; men of position and true influence were to be pulled down and degraded, and so on. In fact, there was a good two years of smart practice in the rupture of all the ties of society, and in the overthrow of whatever was respectable in the land, before he need cry halt.

Away he went then, cheered by the sweet voices of the mob he loved, and quick work he made of it. I need not stop to say, how pleasant Dublin became when deserted of all who could afford to quit it; nor how peaceful were the streets which no one traversed—ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant. The people, like Oliver, “asked for more;” ungrateful people! not content with Father Glynn at the viceroy's table, and the Bishop of “Mesopotamia” in the council, they cried, like the horseleech's daughters, “Give! give!”

“What would they have, the spalpeens?” said Pierce Mahony; “sure ain't we destroying the place entirely, and nobody will be able to live here after us.”

“What do they want?” quoth Anthony Blake; “can't they have patience? Isn't the church trembling, and property not worth two years' purchase?”

“Upon my life!” whispered Lord Morpeth, “I can't comprehend them. I fear we have been only but too good-natured!—don't you think so?”

And so they pondered over their difficulties, but never a man among them could suggest a remedy for their new demand, nor make out a concession which had not been already made.

“Did you butter Dan?” said Anthony.

“Ay, and offered him the 'rolls' too,” said Sheil.

“It's no use,” interposed Pierce; “he's not to be caught.”

“Could n't ye make Tom Steele Bishop of Cashel?”

“He wouldn't take it,” groaned the viceroy.

“Is Mr. Arkips a privy councillor?”

“No; but he might if he liked. There's no use in these trifles.”

“Eureka, gents, I have it!” cried my lord; “order post-horses for me this instant—I have it!”

And so he had, and by that act alone he stamped himself as the first man of his party.

Swift philosophised on the satiric touch of building a madhouse, as the most appropriate charity to Ireland; but what would he have said had he heard that the greatest favour its rulers could bestow—the most flattering compliment to national feeling—was to open the gaols, to let loose robbers and housebreakers, highwaymen and cutthroats—to return burglars to their afflicted homes, and bring back felons to their weeping families. Some sneering critic will object to it, as scarcely complimentary to a country to say—“these gentlemen are only thieves—murderers; they cannot hurt your morals. They were sentenced to transportation, but why should we spread vice among innocent bushmen, and disseminate wickedness through Norfolk Island? Let them loose where they are, they know the ways of the place, they 'll not murder the 'wrong man;' depend upon it, too, the rent won't suffer by their remaining.” And so my lord took off the handcuffs, and filed the fetters; and the bondsmen, albeit not all “hereditary,” went free. Who should be called the Liberator, I ask, after this? Is it your Daniel, who promises year after year, and never performs; or you, my lord, who strikes off real chains, not metaphorical ones, and liberates real captives, not figurative slaves?

It was, indeed, a “great day for Ireland” when the villains got loose; and must have been a strong lesson on the score of domestic duty to many a roving blade, who preferred spending that evening at home, to venturing out after dark. My lord covered himself with laurels, and albeit they were gathered, as Lord Wellesley said, in the “Groves of Blarney,” they well became the brow they ornamented.

I should scarcely have thought necessary to ring a paean of praise on this great governor, if it were not for a most unaccountable attack his magnanimous and stupendous mercy, as Tom Steele would call it, has called forth from some organ of the press.

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

“Why, of 16 whom he pardoned, and of 41 whose sentences he commuted in the gaol of our own city, 13 were re-committed, and of these no fewer than 10 were in due time transported. One of the latter, Mary Lynch, was subsequently five times committed, and at last transported; Jeremiah Twomey, alias Old Lock, was subsequently six times committed, and finally transported, while two others were twice committed. These are a specimen of the persons whom his lordship delighted to honour. Of the whole 57 (who were liberated between January, 1835, and April, 1839), there were, at the time of their sentences being commuted, or themselves discharged, 34 under sentence of transportation, and two under sentence of death. In the county gaol, 47 prisoners experienced the benefit of viceregal liberality. Of these 18 had been under sentence of transportation, 11 of them for life; but how many of them it became the duty of the government to introduce a second or third time to the notice of the judge, or what was their ultimate destiny, we are, unfortunately, not informed. The recorder, we observe, passed sentence of transportation yesterday on a fellow named Corkery, who had some years ago been similarly sentenced by one of the judges, but for whose release his worship was unable to account. The explanation, however, is easy. Corkery was one of the scoundrels liberated by Lord Normanby, and he has since been living on the plunder of the citizens, on whom that vain and visionary viceroy so inconsiderately let him loose.”

Now I detest figures, and, therefore, I won't venture to dispute the man's arithmetic about the “ten in due time transported,” nor Corkery, nor Mary Lynch, nor any of them.

I take the facts on his own showing, and I ground upon them the most triumphant defence of the calumniated viceroy. What was it, I ask, but the very prescience of the lord lieutenant we praise in the act? He liberated a gaol full of ruffians, not to inundate the world with a host of felons and vagabonds, but, simply, to give them a kind of day-rule.

“Let them loose,” cried my lord; “take the irons off—devil a long they 'll be free. Mark my words, that fellow will murder some one else before long. Thank you, Mary Lynch, it is a real pleasure to me to restore you to liberty;” and then, sotto, “you'll have a voyage out, nevertheless, I see that. Open the gates—pass out, gentlemen highwaymen. Don't be afraid, good people of Cork, these are infernal ruffians, they 'll all be back again before six months. It's no consequence to me to see you at large, for I have the heartfelt conviction that most of you must be hanged yet.”

Here is the true defence of the viceroy, here the real and well-grounded explanation of his conduct; and I hope when Lord Brougham attacks his noble friend—which of course he will—that the marquis will hurl back on him, with proud triumph, this irresistible mark of his united foresight and benevolence.