FACTS
FOR THE
KIND-HEARTED OF ENGLAND!
AS TO
THE WRETCHEDNESS
OF THE
IRISH PEASANTRY,
AND
THE MEANS FOR THEIR REGENERATION.

BY JASPER W. ROGERS, C.E.

LONDON:
JAMES RIDGWAY, PICCADILLY.
1847.

FACTS
FOR THE
KIND-HEARTED OF ENGLAND.

In my twentieth year my first visit was made to London—how long since need not be said, lest I make discoveries. I arrived at the "Swan with two necks," in Lad Lane, to the imminent peril of my own one, on entering the yard of that then famous hostelry, the gate of which barely allowed admission to the coach itself—and first set foot on London ground, midst the bustle of some half-dozen coaches, either preparing for exit, or discharging their loads of passengers and parcels.

Four "insides" were turned out, and eight "outsides" turned in—I, amongst the unfortunates of the latter class, taking possession of the nearest point I could to the coffee-room fire. It is to be recollected that in those days one had but four chances in his favour, against perhaps forty applicants for the interior of the mail—and he who was driven in winter, by necessity of time, to the top of a coach in Liverpool, and from thence to Lad Lane, and found himself in the coffee-room there unfrozen, might be well contented. So felt I, then,—and doubly so now, as I think of the dangers of flood, and road, and neck, which I encountered in a twenty-six hours' journey, exposed to the "pelting of the pitiless storm,"—for it snowed half the way.

Dinner discussed, and its etceteras having been partaken, in full consciousness of the comforts which surrounded me, contrasted with the discomforts, &c. from which I had escaped,—I sank into an agreeable reverie; and during a vision,—I must not call it a doze,—composed of port wine and walnuts—the invigorating beams of Wallsend coal—an occasional fancied jolt of the coach—the three mouthfuls of dinner, by the name, I had gotten at Oxford—and the escape of my one neck, when, goose as I was, I presented it where two seemed to be an essential by the sign of the habitation and the dangers of the gate,—I was aroused by a crash, something like the noise of the machine which accompanies the falling of an avalanche or a castle, or some such direful affair at "Astley's;" and starting up, I thought,—had the coach upset? but, much to my gratification, found myself a safe "inside." Still came crash after crash, until I thought it high time to see as well as hear. "What on earth is the matter?" said I to the first waiter I met, as I descended from the coffee-room, and got to the door of the "tap," or room for accommodation of the lower grade of persons frequenting the establishment. "Oh! sir," said he, "it is two dreadful Irishmen fighting: one has broken a table on the other's head; the other smashed a chair." I stopped short, and well do I recollect that the blood rushed to my face as I turned away; I confess, too, that while returning to the coffee-room, when the waiter followed and asked, should he bring tea, I "cockneyfied" my accent as much as possible, in the hope that he should not know I was an Irishman:—such was my shame for my country at the moment.

Many minutes, however, had not elapsed until I felt shame another way—namely, that I should for a moment deny the land which gave me birth;—and I at once determined to ascertain the facts and particulars of the outrage. Down I went, therefore, again, and entering the tap-room, found that in truth a table had been broken, and a chair too, not to speak at all of the heads; but, on further investigation, it appeared that the table, being weak in constitution, sunk under the weight of one of the belligerents, who jumped upon it to assail the other with advantage,—and that the chair had been smashed by coming in contact with the table; the gentleman on the ground having thought it fair to use a chair in his defence when his enemy took to the larger piece of furniture:—hence the awful crash, crash—that awoke me from my—vision.

So far well—but further inquiry brought forth further truths. It came out that one of the party had called the other "a beggarly bogtrotter," for which he received in reply a blow upon his nose. Thus the row commenced; but better still, it appeared that one of "the dreadful Irishmen" was a Welshman! and that it was he who called poor Paddy "a bogtrotter."

First then, said I to myself, the table was not broken on the Irishman's head; it was smashed by the Welshman's foot—and it was not "two dreadful Irishmen," but one, who had been engaged in the fray, and he was insulted; therefore, at the most, ONLY ONE HALF OF THE STORY IS TRUE! And in about that proportion have I since found almost all the stories and charges against the lower class of my unhappy countrymen—and so will others too, who please to investigate facts.

Amongst my earliest introductions to "London Society" was "St. Giles's." Notwithstanding the warnings of my friends, as to the danger attendant even on a walk through its streets, I ventured a little farther; and who ever may have suffered there, I have not, except from witnessing the almost indescribable misery of its inhabitants. Throughout my entire search into its wretchedness, I never received even an uncivil answer but on one occasion, and I am the more desirous to state this fact, because, although "St. Giles" sounds to English ears as a spot contaminated by the abode of Irish only, I found many and many an Englishman there, as wretched as my own wretched countrymen.

In the instance I allude to, I had entered the first lobby in one of the houses of a most miserable street, where I saw a woman "rocking" in the manner the lower class of Irish express silent agony of feeling. Her body moved back and forward in that peculiar motion which told to my heart she was in misery; and entering the room in silent respect for her suffering, I forgot to knock or make any noise to attract attention. In a moment a figure darted from the side of a bed behind the door, and having caught up something as it passed between me and the entrance, he, for I then saw my assailant was a man, brandished the "miserable remains" of a kitchen poker before my face, and demanded, "What did I want, and how da-ar I come there to throuble thim with my curosity?" And what right had I to pry into their miseries, unless to relieve them? I confess my object in visiting St. Giles's then, had not arisen from so pure a motive, and I felt the justice of his demand—The miseries of the heart are sacred amongst the rich: why should they not be equally so amongst the poor? Nature has made original feeling alike in all; but the poor feel more deeply; for the rich suffer in heart midst countless luxuries and efforts from others to wean them from their sufferings, while the poor suffer midst numberless privations, and almost utter loneliness. Why then should I have "throubled thim with my curosity?"

But I made my peace, with little effort too; and then, for the first time, saw a dead body lying