“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:--