EVERY CONVICT HIS OWN CHESTERFIELD.
Mr. John Mitchel—by the astute and graceful manner with which he resigned his "comparative liberty," revoking his "parole of honour"—displayed a politeness that would have charmed Lord Chesterfield, and a casuistry that would have ravished Ignatius Loyola. Determined upon escaping from bondage—(for which we say the smallest blame to him)—he nevertheless resolved to escape like a gentleman. He would resign his "comparative liberty" gracefully, as a bride resigns her hand—he would revoke his parole smilingly, as a high-bred cardplayer would revoke at whist. He enters the police-office—walks into the magistrate's room—gives him a bit of paper. "What's this?" asks the magistrate. "That's to signify," says John Mitchel, "that you may chain me—lock me up." "May I, indeed!" cried the magistrate. "You may," answers the magnanimous patriot; who, disdaining to take the least advantage, bolts from the court, jumps on a horse ready saddled for the work, and gallops his hardest.
We have heard of splitting a hair; but never before was word of man—parole of honour—broken with such nicety. The flaw is so delicate, it is hard to say where it begins or ends. In future, perhaps, when an Irish convict gentleman waits upon an Australian magistrate, to surrender, on paper, his "comparative liberty," the magistrate, before perusing the document, will take the precaution of shutting the office-door.