We have known something about Irish crime, but the following true tale takes a lot of beating. On the last day of the Clonmel Assizes, in July, Judge Torrens heard a case of arson, in which the prisoners, who were four in number, were all acquitted, after a trial which lasted eight hours.
The principal witness for the prosecution was an approver, named Lysaght; and, in all the annals of informers, it would be extremely difficult to find a parallel to this same Lysaght. Indeed, the admission by the Crown of the testimony of such a miscreant, in the matter of life or death, appears to be highly reprehensible, as the following abstract of his evidence will plainly evince:
John Lysaght examined: I remember the time when Walsh’s house was burnt. Anthony Ryan came to me before the house was burned to borrow a gun. I brought it to him on a Monday night, and he told me to come with him to McCarthy’s house, who wanted to see me. I went to McCarthy’s, and near his place was an old house, in which some of our party were assembled. McCarthy brought some bread and spirits, and we took share of it. McCarthy asked me if I would go with the men to frighten Walsh, and burn the house. I promised to do so, and he then furnished us with powder and ball; we went down to the river side, and McCarthy gave his pistols and 7/6 in money to Anthony Ryan. He gave me some powder, flax, and something like saltpetre, and showed me, by putting some powder into the pan, and snapping it, how the flax was to be lighted. McCarthy then parted with us, and we, after eating the bread and meat, went to Walsh’s. I lighted the tow, and Paddy Ryan put the fire into the roof. I and two of the party then went and stood sentry near the road. After a time, I heard a noise, and ran back to give an alarm. We then left, and went by Toom homewards, and separated near Marshall’s gate; this was about three or four in the morning. I and Paddy Ryan had shot guns, Ned Ryan had a long one, Darby Ryan a bayonet on a pole, and the two Ryans had McCarthy’s pistols. We left the house after it was in flames. I knew a man named Bryan Noonan; he is dead.
Judge Torrens: Was it you murdered Noonan?
Witness: No. I joined in it.
Mr. Hatchell: How many men did you murder before this?
Witness: None.
You say it was Anthony Ryan went to you to get the gun?—It was.
He has, since, been transported?—Yes.
You went with the party to the burning for the love of amusement?—They induced me to go with them, but did not force me; I was not very unwilling to go after getting the liquor; but, when I brought the gun, had no such intention.
Did you load the gun before you went out?—I did.
Had you liberty to carry a gun?—Yes, from a magistrate, Mr. Coates, who is since dead.
Were you ever tried before you committed the murder on Noonan?—Indeed I was; I was tried before, for posting a threatening notice, but it was no such thing.
Were you not sentenced to be transported?—I was.
Did you not fire shots at the same time?—Yes.
Judge Torrens: And the reward you gave the Government for bringing you back was murdering Noonan
Mr. Hatchell: Was not your brother Caravat tried?—Yes.
You say you were only present at the murder of Noonan; now, was it not you who knocked down the unfortunate man with the butt-end of a blunderbuss?—Yes, the very first. (Sensation.)
And you don’t call that murdering the man?—We were all murdering him.
Were you not one of the men who carried him into the ditch to hide the body?—I was.
Where is your brother, the Caravat?—I don’t know.
Was he at the burning of Walsh’s house?—No.
Did you know Leonard, the smith?—I did.
Did you see him killed?—I saw him struck, but was not looking on at his killing.
Did you give him a blow then?—I did not strike a blow at the man.
Did you give a blow that day?—Yes, when myself was struck.
Do you remember Wat Hayes?—Yes.
You attacked him, but he shot you off?—No, he did not.
Was not one of your companions shot by Mr. Hayes?—No, but a man near me.
Now, tell me, did he not kill one of your friends?—Oh, he had a party against us, and waylaid us.
Did you remember Jemmy Hughes, who was killed with a hatchet?—I did.
Were you not looking at his murder?—Oh, no; he was married to my first cousin.
Were you not taxed with the murder?—The whole country knew who was in that affair.
You recollect David Hickey, who was killed at Bilboa?—I was in the fair.
You were of the party?—I was looking at him.
That was your third murder.
A Juror: His fifth murder.
Did you rob Michael Rogers?—No, but I got the course of law, and was acquitted.
You knew Mick Griffin, Lord Stradbroke’s herd?—I heard he was shot.
Was your brother Caravat accused of this business?—No, I never heard of it.
Did you not say you would put a rope about McCarthy’s neck?—I did not. I remember when Kennedy was put out of possession. McCarthy’s cattle and premises were burned after this, but the country say it was himself did it. I never asked a farm of Lord Stradbroke, but my father or brothers might. I never heard that McCarthy prevented us getting the farm, on the ground of our being so bad.
Do you remember you and your uncle carrying away a woman?—I do.
Your uncle was transported?—He was.
So you have been guilty of one abduction, five murders, and one burning; what else did you do? Would you suggest any other crime in the catalogue, of which you were not guilty?
Judge Torrens: Did you commit a rape?—No.
Mr. Hatchell: Were any of your brothers convicted of a rape?—Yes.
Were you not charged with holding the unfortunate woman while your brother committed the rape?—No, but another brother was.
Judge Torrens: Did you steal cattle?—No.
Mr. Hatchell: That would be too shabby an offence. When you came to Walsh’s house, you lifted one of the Ryans up in the roof?—Yes.
And you lit the fire?—I did.
Did you know there were women in the house?—I partly guessed there were.
Did you mind how many innocent people might have been burned?—I did not care. (Great sensation.)
Judge and Counsel, with great disgust, ordered the wretch off the table.
In these days of Motor Cars, any gossip about their progenitors must be of interest. On 7 Aug., a steam carriage, carrying 16 persons, belonging to the General Steam Company, was tried between the York and Albany, Regent’s Park, and the Manor House at Tottenham—i.e., along the Camden Road to Finsbury Park—doing the distance in rather
less than half-an-hour. Another ran on 13 Sep. from Deptford to Sevenoaks, about 21 miles, in 2 hours 37 minutes, but there were small accidents by the way. Later on in the month the first-named carriage performed about Windsor, Frogmore and Dachet, and frequently reached a speed of 18 to 20 miles an hour; and on Oct. 1 it was shown to the Queen and Prince Albert, the latter expressing himself highly pleased with it. It then only did 16 miles an hour.
On 9 Sep. Vauxhall Gardens, which had been a place of amusement since the time of Charles I., were sold for £20,000. In Punch of 14 Aug. we find a sad account of a last visit:
“Impelled by a sense of duty, we wended our way to the ‘Royal property,’ [169a] to take a last look at the long expiring gardens. It was a wet night—the lamps burnt dimly—the military band played in the minor key—the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that we took their towels for pocket handkerchiefs; the concert in the open rain went off tamely—dirge-like, in spite of the ‘Siege of Acre,’ which was described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and maroons, and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals, like death notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The divertissement was anything but diverting, when we reflected upon the impending fate of the ‘Rotunda,’ in which it was performed.
“No such damp was, however, thrown over the evolutions of ‘Ducrow’s beautiful horses and equestrian artistes,’ including the ‘new grand entrée and calvacade of Amazons.’ They had no sympathy with the decline and fall of the Simpsonian [169b] empire. They were strangers, interlopers, called in, like mutes and feathers, to grace the ‘funeral show,’ to give a more graceful flourish to the final exit. The horses pawed the sawdust, evidently unconscious that the earth it covered would soon be ‘let on lease for building ground’; the riders seemed in the hey-day of their equestrian triumph. Let them, however, derive from the fate of Vauxhall a deep, a fearful lesson!—though we shudder as we write, it shall not be said that destruction came upon them unawares—that no warning voice had been raised—that even the squeak of Punch was silent! Let them not sneer, and call us superstitious—we do not give credence to supernatural agency as a fixed and general principle; but we did believe in Simpson, and stake our professional reputation upon Widdicomb! [170a]
“That Vauxhall Gardens were under the special protection of, that they drew the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial Simpson, who can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to box, and welcomed everybody to the ‘Royal property,’ right royally did things go on! Who would then have dreamt that the illustrious George [170b]—he of the Piazza—would ever be ‘honoured with instructions to sell’? that his eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to the Elysian haunts of quondam fashion—in other words—painting the lily-gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, departed (‘died,’ some say, but we don’t believe it), and, at the moment he made his last bow, Vauxhall ought to have been closed; it was madness—the madness which will call us, peradventure, superstitious—which kept the gates open when Simpson’s career closed—it was an anomaly, for, like Love and Heaven, Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson!
“Let Ducrow reflect upon these things—we dare not speak out—but a tutelar being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena—his ring is, he may rely upon it, a fairy one—while that mysterious being dances and prances in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his clowns forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. Oh! let him, then, whilst seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give good heed unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second centenary in the circle!
“These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle, very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us—we dared not stay to see the fireworks, ‘in the midst of which Signora Rossini was to make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet high.’ She might have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; [171] in fact, the ‘Vauxhall Papers,’ published in the gardens, put forth a legend which favours such a dreadful supposition. We refer our readers to them—they are only sixpence apiece.
“Of course, the gardens were full, in spite of the weather; for what must be the callousness of that man who could let the Gardens pass under the hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affectionate farewell? Good gracious! we can hardly believe such insensibility does exist. Hasten then, dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh of a fine old boon companion—hasten to take your parting slice of ham, your last bowl of arrack—even now, while the great auctioneer says ‘going.’”
On 24 August Sir J. L. Goldsmid was made a Baronet, and was the first Jewish gentleman who ever received that title. Perhaps it is not generally known that an honour, not much inferior, had, once, very nearly fallen to the lot of a brother Israelite. At one of those festive meetings at Carlton House, in which George IV. sometimes allowed a few of his most favoured subjects to participate, Mr. Braham was introduced to sing his then newly-composed song, “A Bumper of Burgundy,” when the gratified monarch, rising from his chair, was, with difficulty, restrained from conferring immediate knighthood on the flattered musician.
Three well-known railways were opened this year; the Great Western, from London to Bristol, on 30 June; the London and Blackwall, on 2 Aug.; and the London and Brighton, on 21 Sep.
On 18 Oct. was a remarkably high tide in the Thames, which did an immense amount of damage. This, and another event were celebrated in a contemporary ballad, beginning: