For a genuine love of freedom commend us to the Irish gentleman (we should not like to apply any lower title,) who being imprisoned in the county jail of Cork on a charge of sedition,—he was a member of the Phœnix Society—wished, nevertheless, being an elector, to record his vote at the late county election. He addressed a petition to the Lord Lieutenant to this effect, and it certainly is a prize specimen of prison literature. We must premise that Jeremiah O’Donovan—for this is his highborn name—is not a convicted prisoner; he is waiting for trial. He thus argues his case, in a letter dated:
“County Jail, Cork, April 30th.
“Need I remind your lordship how unconstitutional it would be to deprive an innocent man of his voice in this important crisis; and, such a deprivation of right may entail the most disastrous results. For instance, my lord, my support may be instrumental in returning an honorable and independent man to the Imperial Parliament; the support of this honorable and independent man may be instrumental in maintaining Lord Derby in office, and the retention of Lord Derby in office may be the means of preventing the shedding of oceans of blood, by affording him time and opportunity for bringing the troublous affairs of Europe to a speedy and pacific termination; whereas, opposite and most disastrous results may follow from my inability to attend the polls.”
He adds, with the most clinching logic:—“Your lordship will perceive at a glance that mine is no ordinary case.” In counting up the Liberal and Derbyite gains and losses, we must admit at least that Lord Derby, through adverse circumstances, lost one ardent supporter, and if a war follows his lordship’s resignation, we shall remember this new prophet Jeremiah. How pleasantly the captive insinuates the excellent use he will make of his vote, as the prisoner at Norfolk Island, asking for the removal of the prohibition against talking, said to the Governor, “Double if you will the chains on our legs; increase the amount of our daily work; reduce our rations even below the present minimum, but do not, at least, deprive us of the power of confessing to one another the justice of the punishment we undergo.” “Transport me if you will for sedition,” cries O’Donovan, “but let me at least give one vote for Lord Derby.”
Blanqui, the imprisoned Republican, was released by Napoleon, because he uttered generous sentiments; in this country, we fear that even this good Tory must be tried, but at least he ought to be defended by Mr. Philip Rose, and his counsel feed out of the Carlton Club fund. He admits in the latter part of the letter, that an application for bail is pending, and that the Lord Lieutenant may, therefore, not like to interfere, but he continues with a kind considerateness that might hardly have been expected—
“Granting me permission would be much more convenient than the postponement of the election. Skibbereen is my polling place, so, as the distance is fifty miles from here, your Lordship will please have the “pass” made out for not less than three days, as it is a day’s journey. To prevent any unnecessary trouble on my account, I will require no guard; my parole to return in three days, or for the time specified, will, I am sure, be sufficient guarantee for my safe keeping.”
The Lord Lieutenant “has no power to comply with the petition.” Such was the substance of the grave official reply. Red tape cannot laugh; but we feel kindly toward the pleasant fellow, light-hearted enough to poke fun at a viceroy from behind prison bars. We hope he will be proved innocent, and thus record his vote at the next county election as a real freeholder.
“Light-hearted enough to poke fun at a viceroy from behind prison bars,” says the London man. Well, I did try to keep a light heart through all my prison days and nights. I got into my head, from one of the books in that library of my boyhood, that “that head is not properly constituted that cannot accustom itself to whatever pillow the vicissitudes of fortune may place under it.” My pillow was hard enough many times, and it was sometimes made a little harder by reproofs from some of my companions for not behaving myself more gravely in penal servitude. But I carried myself through those hard times more in the spirit of that poet, who sang:
“Let me play the fool
With mirth and laughter, so let wrinkles come