Stohr/Walsh, Corrections: A Text/Reader (Second Edition) Instructor Resources

Corrections The Essentials 2nd Edition by Stohr

ISBN 1483372243 9781483372242
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1. What is a punitive penalty ordered by the court after a defendant has been convicted of a crime,
either by a jury, a bench trial, by a judge or in a plea bargain?
a. Conviction
b. Justice
c. Revenge
*d. Sentence
Answer location: p. 72

2. A moral concept that is difficult to define, but in essence means to treat people in ways consistent
with norms of fairness and in accordance with what they justly deserve by virtue of their behavior is
known as what?
a. Conviction
*b. Justice
c. Revenge
d. Sentence
Answer location: p. 73

3. Who provided the following definition: “Justice consists of treating equals equally, and unequals
unequally according to relevant differences”?
a. Plato
b. Beccaria
*c. Aristotle
d. Homer
Answer location: p. 73

4. What type of sentence is one in which the actual number of years a person may serve is not fixed, but
is rather a range of years?
a. Split
b. Determinate
*c. Indeterminate
d. Mandatory
Answer location: p. 73

5. What type of sentence means that convicted criminals are given a fixed number of years they must
serve rather than a range?

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Stohr/Walsh, Corrections: A Text/Reader (Second Edition) Instructor Resources

a. Split
*b. Determinate
c. Indeterminate
d. Mandatory
Answer location: p. 74

6. What type of sentence can exist in the context of both determinate and indeterminate sentencing
structures and simply means that probation is not an option and that the minimum time be set by law?
(p. 74)
a. Split
b. Determinate
c. Indeterminate
*d. Mandatory
Answer location: p. 74

7. What type of sentences are two sentences ordered to be served at the same time?
a. Split
b. Determinate
c. Consecutive
*d. Concurrent
Answer location: p. 74

8. What type of sentences are two or more sentences that must be served sequentially?
a. Split
b. Determinate
*c. Consecutive
d. Concurrent
Answer location: p. 74-75

9. Which statutes are derived from the same punitive atmosphere that led to truth in sentencing
statutes?
*a. Habitual offender
b. Truth in sentencing
c. Life without parole
d. None of the above
Answer location: p. 75

10. What type of sentence exposes offenders to the reality of prison life for a short period of time,
followed by probation?
*a. Shock probation
b. Split sentences
c. Non-custodial sentences
d. Drug court
Answer location: p. 76

11. Which type of sentences may seem popular with the public at large until they get the bill?
a. Habitual offender
b. Truth in sentencing

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Stohr/Walsh, Corrections: A Text/Reader (Second Edition) Instructor Resources

*c. Life without parole

d. None of the above
Answer location: p. 75-76

12. Which type of sentence requires felons to serve brief periods of confinement in a county jail prior to
placement on probation?
a. Shock probation
*b. Split sentences
c. Non-custodial sentences
d. Drug court
Answer location: p. 76

13. Which type of sentence requires participants to be involved in an intensive treatment program that
lasts about one year?
a. Shock probation
b. Split sentences
c. Non-custodial sentences
*d. Drug court
Answer location: p. 78

14. What occurs when there is a wide variation in sentences received by different offenders?
*a. Sentencing disparity
b. Fair Sentencing Act
c. Anti-Drug Abuse Act
d. U.S. Sentencing Commission Report to Congress
Answer location: p. 79

15. What established a 100 to 1 quantity ratio differential between powder and crack cocaine?
a. Sentencing disparity
b. Fair Sentencing Act
*c. Anti-Drug Abuse Act
d. U.S. Sentencing Commission Report to Congress
Answer location: p. 80

16. What increased the amount of cocaine subject to the five year minimum sentence from five grams
to 28 grams?
a. Sentencing disparity
*b. Fair Sentencing Act
c. Anti-Drug Abuse Act
d. U.S. Sentencing Commission Report to Congress
Answer location: p. 82

17. Congress reacted to media hype about how addictive crack was based on what?
a. Sentencing disparity
b. Fair Sentencing Act
c. Anti-Drug Abuse Act
*d. U.S. Sentencing Commission Report
Answer location: p. 80

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Stohr/Walsh, Corrections: A Text/Reader (Second Edition) Instructor Resources

18. What is used to assist judges in making sentencing recommendations?

*a. Presentence investigation reports
b. Sentencing files
c. Investigation reports
d. Judge’s reports
Answer location: p. 81

19. A presentence investigation report is generally written by whom?

a. The judge
b. The judge’s clerk
*c. The probation officer
d. The parole officer
Answer location: p. 81

20. How many states currently require disclosure of the presentence investigation report?
a. 10
b. 14
c. 15
*d. 16
Answer location: p. 84

21. What was charged with the task of creating mandatory sentencing guidelines?
*a. United States Sentencing Commission
b. Sentencing guidelines
c. Sentencing disparity
d. Fair Sentencing Act
Answer location: p. 84

22. Forms containing scales that come with a set of rules for numerically computing sentences that
offenders should receive based on the crime they committed and their criminal records are known as
what?
a. United States Sentencing Commission
*b. Sentencing guidelines
c. Sentencing disparity
d. Fair Sentencing Act
Answer location: p. 84

23. The creation of the sentencing guidelines intended to do what?

a. Create judicial bias
b. Help determine guilt or innocence
*c. Reign in judicial discretion
d. Classify offenders into institutions
Answer location: p. 84

24. Sentencing guidelines are now , meaning that judges can consult them and follow them or not.
a. Presumptive
*b. Advisory

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Stohr/Walsh, Corrections: A Text/Reader (Second Edition) Instructor Resources

c. Mandatory
d. Wishful thinking
e. None of the above
Answer location: p. 86

25. In which Supreme Court case did the court rule that the federal sentencing guidelines were no
longer to be binding on the states?
*a. United States v. Booker
b. Apprendi v. New Jersey
c. Blakely v. Washington
d. Rita v. United States
Answer location: p. 89

26. Which of the following factors can affect a judge’s decision when sentencing a defendant?
a. Seriousness of crime
b. Prior record
c. Offender cooperation
*d. All of the above
e. None of the above
Answer location: whole chapter

27. What type of sentence is work release, whereby a person is consigned to a special portion of the jail
on weekends and nights, but released to go to work during the day?
a. Shock probation
*b. Split sentences
c. Non-custodial sentences
d. Drug court
Answer location: p. 76

28. What is reasonable and just if the members of a group being more harshly punished commit more
crimes than the individual members of other groups, but discriminatory and unjust if they do not?
a. Sentencing disparity
*b. Sentencing variation
c. Fair Sentencing Act
d. Presentence report
Answer location: p. 79

29. Truth-in-sentencing laws require that there be a truthful, realistic connection between the custodial
sentence imposed on offenders and the time they actually serve, and they mandate that inmates serve
at least _____ % of their sentences before becoming eligible for release. (c )
a. 20
b. 45
*c. 85
d. 60
Answer location: p. 74

30. A Fair Sentencing Act was introduced and passed by Congress, and was signed into law by which
president?

5
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who’ve never set their eyes upon Mr Speaker. What did Parliament ever
begin, I should like to know? That is, understand me, what that’s good?
No, good laws—wise laws—are begun outside; thought of, invented by
quiet folks, who never think to put M.P. to their names; and whose great
trouble it is to get the good acknowledged. And when at last, after
wasting I don’t know how much of heaven’s good time—after the
rumpus of many, many years—Parliament consents to take the good
thing, I’m hanged if the goose doesn’t hatch the swan’s egg, as if it was a
thing laid by itself, and not put into its nest by other people.
“The honour of the Most High!” Surely, Isaac, the best way to show
such honour is to love your fellow-creatures as the greatest work—so far
as we know—of the Most High; and not, poor small things as we are, to
walk about the earth, and when we poke up our noses highest in the face
of heaven, think we have then the best right to tread the hardest on the
necks of everybody that don’t agree with us. To hear a few folks talk in
Parliament, you’d think that they’d assured to themselves all Paradise as
a freehold, and standing upon their rights, would set up in it man-traps
and spring-guns against all intruders. However, never mind, Isaac. There
was a time when a King of England would have drawn a tooth a day out
of your jaws, if you didn’t undraw your purse-strings; and now—so do
this wicked world roll on—you may wear a Lord Mayor’s chain, and, as
a magistrate, commit vagrants to gaol like any Christian.—Your friend,
J H .
 L XX.—To Mrs Hedgehog, New York.
D G ,—September’s so near we can almost put our
hand upon it, and yet I’m in London. It’s a dreadful confession of
poverty, but I can’t help it. If I’m not ashamed to be seen on my stand,
I’m not a licensed cabman. The only comfort there is, everybody that
stays in town must be as poor as myself, and that, according to some
folk’s notions, is a blessing to think of. A purse that was dropped on the
pavement of Regent Street lay there a week, and was at last picked up by
a policeman. London never looked so poor and dull; for all the world like
a fine lady in an undress gown, with all her paint wiped off. The opera is
shut up, and the manager has had a silver bed-candlestick given him by
lords and dukes, because he has been so full of public spirit as to make
his own fortune. By the way, grandmother, I don’t know how it is with
the player-folks in New York; but here with us, if a man or woman want
a bit of plate they’ve only to take a theatre. A playhouse is a short cut to
a silversmith’s. There isn’t a London manager who isn’t plated after this
fashion, which shows there is no place for true gratitude like the green-
room; but I ask your pardon for talking of such matters, knowing what a
low place you think the theatre. Parliament, like a goose that has been set
upon too many eggs, has risen with half of ’em come to nothing. But
this, grandmother, is the old trick. When the Parliament first opens, and
Ministers come down with new law after law, why, what busy, bustling
folks they seem! What a look of business it gives to the whole thing! But
half of ’em is only for show; just so many dummies to take in what
shopkeepers call “an enlightened public.” You know the bottles of red
and blue that they have in apothecaries’ shops? Well, half the folks think
’em physic, when they’re nothing in the world but coloured water. Sir
James Graham’s Medical Bill was just one of these things: nothing real
in it; but something made up for show; just to give a colouring to
business. Talking of Parliament, a dreadful accident happened at the
prorogation. You know it’s the privilege of the Duke of Argyll to bear the
royal crown before the Queen. Certain folks came into the world with
certain privileges of the kind. One has a right to stir the royal tea-cup on
the day of the coronation, another to put on the Queen’s pattens
whenever she shall walk in the city, another to present the monarch with
a pint of periwinkles when he shall visit Billingsgate; and so forth: all
customs of the good old times, when people thought kings and queens
were angels in disguise, who had kindly left heaven just to give poor
mortals here a lift—in fact, to make the world endurable. Well, the Duke
of Argyll, walking backwards with the crown—going straightforwards
not being at all the thing in the Court—fell, poor old gentleman, down
some steps, and falling, dropt the crown! Pheugh! There was a shower of
pearls and diamonds; for all the precious stones came rattling on the
floor, just as if the Queen, like the little girl in the fairy story, had been
talking jewels. There were thoughts, I’m told, of calling in the police to
keep off the mob of peers; but altogether they behaved themselves very
well, and not a precious stone was found missing. The accident,
however, caused a great fuss; and I’m told, in order to prevent its
happening again, Madame Tussaud has offered to make a Duke of Argyll
in wax, that, fitted up with proper wheels and springs, may be made to
go backwards with no fear of a tumble. Should the thing succeed—and I
don’t see why it shouldn’t—it would be a great saving in the way of
salaries to the country, if a good many other Court officers were
manufactured after the like fashion.
I’d almost forgotten to say that the King of the Dutch has been on a
visit to us—and, as I’ve heard, a very decent sort of king he is. Of course
he played while here at a little bit of soldiering; guards and grenadiers
were turned out in Hyde Park, that he might review their helmets and
bearskin caps. Isn’t it odd, grandmother, that the first show kings and
princes, when they come to us, want to stare at is a show of soldiers? just
to see how nicely men are armed and mounted to kill men! They don’t
mean any harm by it, of course; but still—I can’t help thinking it—it
does appear to me, if Beelzebub was to go into a strange country—if,
indeed, there is any country he’s not yet visited—the sight he’d first like
to see would be the sight of men taught the best way of cutting men’s
throats. And then (if he came here to London) he’d go down to
Woolwich Marshes, to see what they call rocket-practice, and wouldn’t
he rub his hands, and switch about his tail, to see how rockets and shells
split, break, tear away everything before ’em, showing what pretty work
they’d make of a solid square of living flesh, standing for so many pence
a day to be made a target of? You’d think it would be some wicked spirit
that would enjoy this fun; but no, grandmother, it isn’t so; quite the
contrary; it’s kings and princes. And yet I should like to have some king
come over here who wouldn’t care to go a-soldiering in Hyde Park; who
wouldn’t think of rocket-practice; but who, on the contrary, would go
about to our schools and our hospitals, and our asylums, and all places
where man does what he can to help man; to assist and comfort him like
a fellow-creature, and not to tear him limb from limb like a devil.
Our Queen has gone to Germany to see where Prince Albert was
born. Well, there’s something pretty and wife-like in the thought of this,
and I like this. There was a dreadful fear among some of the nobs in
Parliament, that while the Queen was away the kingdom would drop to
pieces. But it isn’t so: the tax-gatherer calls just the same as ever. The
Queen took ship, and landed at Antwerp—at the Quai Vandyke; now,
Vandyke, you must know, was a famous painter; and abroad, they’ve a
fashion of naming streets and places after folks that’s called geniuses.
We haven’t come to that yet. Only think of our having a Hogarth Square,
or a Shakspere instead of a Waterloo Bridge! And then for statues in the
streets, we don’t give them to authors and painters, but only to kings and
dukes that don’t pay their debts.
Still, I do feel for her Gracious Majesty. Dear soul! Isn’t it dreadful
that a gentlewoman can’t step abroad—can’t take boat, but what there’s a
hundred guns blazing, firing away at her,—as if the noise of cannon and
the smell of gunpowder was like the songs of nightingales and the scent
of roses! How royalty keeps its hearing, I can’t tell. When the dear lady
got upon the Rhine, there were the guns blazing away as though heaven
and earth were come together. It’s odd enough that people will think a
great noise is a great respect; and that the heartiest welcome can only be
given by gunpowder. It seems that the folks were putting up a statue to a
musician named Beethoven, and the Queen of England and the Prince
were just in time to pay their respects to the bronze. Mr Beethoven while
alive was nobody; but it’s odd how a man’s worth is raked up from his
coffin! And so it’s a great comfort to great men who, when in this world,
are thought very small indeed, to think how big they’ll be upon earth
after they’ve gone to heaven; a comfort for ’em, when they may happen
to want a coat, to think of the suit of bronze or marble that kings and
queens will afterwards give ’em. If, now, there’s any English composer,
any man with a mind in him, forced, for want of better employment—
forced to give young ladies lessons on the piano when he should be
doing sonatas and sinfonias, and that sort of thing,—why, I say, it must
be a comfort to him to know that folks can honour genius when it’s put
up by way of statue in the market-place.
One of the prettiest stories I’ve heard of the jaunt is this, that the
Queen and Albert went in a quiet way to visit the Prince’s old
schoolmaster—if this isn’t enough to make all schoolmasters in England
hold their heads up half a yard higher! Besides, it mayn’t show a bad
example to high folks who keep tutors and governesses.
Altogether the Queen must be pleased with her trip, and I should
think not the less pleased where the folks made the least noise; although,
from what I read in one of the papers, everybody doesn’t think so; for the
writer complains that there was “no shouting or noise, only that eternal
bowing which so strikes a traveller, and which would make one believe
that beings across the Channel were formed with some natural affinity
between their right hands and their hats.” Really, to my mind there’s
something more pleasing, more rational-like, in one human creature
quietly bowing to another, than in shouting and hallooing at him like a
wild Indian. But, then, people do so like noise!
You’ll be sorry to hear, grandmother, that your pets, the bishops, are
again in trouble. I’m sure of it, bishops were never intended to have
anything to do with money: they always tumble into such mistakes
whenever they touch it. How is it to be expected that they should know
the mystery of pounds, shillings, and pence,—they who can’t abide
earthly vanities—they who are always above this world, though they
never go up, as I hear, with Mr Green in his balloon? Well, it seems that
the bishops have had a mint of money put into their hands that they may
build new churches for their fellow-sinners, whom they call spiritually
destitute. Well, would you think it?—in a moment of strange
forgetfulness, they’ve laid out so much money upon palaces for
themselves, that they can’t build the proper number of churches for the
poor? The bishops have taken care of the bishops—and for the spiritually
destitute, why, they may worship in highways and byways, in fields and
on commons. Of course the bishops never meant this. No; it has all come
about from their knowing nothing of the value of money. Still, what’s
called the lower orders won’t believe this. And isn’t it a shocking thing
to consider that the poor man may look at Bishop So-and-so with a
grudge in his eye, saying to himself, “Yes, you’ve built yourself a fine
house—you’ve got your fine cedars, and all that King Solomon talks
about, in your own palace; but where’s my sittings in the church?—
where, bishop, is my bench in the middle aisle?”
This is so dreadful to think of, that I can’t write any further upon it—
and so no more from your affectionate grandson,
J H .
 L XXI.—To Sir J. B. Tyrell, Bart., M.P. for
North Essex.
S ,—As I consider every gentleman that I have had the pleasure, or
the honour, or the ill-luck as it may be, of driving, a sort of acquaintance
—for where money passes, it in a manner binds men—I make no
difficulty in sending you these few lines.
You have been dining with the Conservative Maldon True Blue Club.
True Blue, I suppose, means heaven’s blue—that is, blue as true as
heaven. All the speeches were printed in the Essex Standard, and
afterwards, where I saw ’em, in the Morning Post. Your speech, Sir
James, or Sir John (for, upon my life, I forget which it is, so I’ll call you
Sir James upon chance)—your speech drenched me, as a Christian
cabman, quite over. You rose to drink the health of the Duke of
Wellington. Well, I don’t object to that. But, I’m sure of it,—never once
thinking of your Testament, you went on in this manner—and mind, it
was only just after dinner—
“It had been said of the noble Duke, that he was not only
the conqueror of Bonaparte—but the greatest man
S !”
You thought if that language was “too strong to apply to him as a
man, his claims upon the country could not be overrated.” Now, Sir
James, the language was too strong (for you said “if”), why did you
use it? Why make any comparison between the Saviour of the world and
the colonel of a Grenadier Guards? The Duke, no doubt, has claims upon
the country; though some of these claims, by-the-by, are regularly settled
by the country every pay-day, and come in regularly with his rents of
Strathfieldsaye. Nevertheless, whatever claims he may have outstanding
against us, I don’t think he can enforce any of ’em in the spirit of Him
who said, “Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to
them that hate you; and pray for them which despitefully use you, and
persecute you.” The Duke of Wellington never talks in this way in the
House of Lords; but do we expect that he should? His business of life,
Sir James, has been to fight; and though I think the trade a very bad one,
nevertheless he made the best of the wickedness. But, Sir James, you, it
seems, would bind up the Sermon on the Mount with the “Wellington
Despatches;” and seem to think the battle of Waterloo a finer acted thing
than that small incident rehearsed at the words, “Take up thy bed and
walk.”
Sometime ago, the son of a Christian judge, passing through a
London street, saw, as he thought, a blasphemous representation of the
Deity exposed in a window. In a trice he smashed the glass and tore up
the offensive picture. Right glad am I, for the sake of the convivial True
Blues, that young Mr Bruce was not at the Maldon dinner; otherwise,
where the chairman found a companion picture for Jesus in the
Grenadier tenant of Apsley House, Mr Bruce might have forgotten Sir
James Tyrell in what he might have thought the blasphemer.
“Our Saviour” and the Duke of Wellington! And among the
company, “which was upwards of seventy in number,” were members of
Parliament, captains, esquires, and—my ink turns almost red with shame
as I write it—and clergymen! There were pious Christians, teachers of
Christian flocks, “their eyes red with wine, and their teeth white with
milk,” who sat quietly upon their seats, and heard the British Grenadier
paralleled with Jesus Christ! Answer, Reverends Leigh, Williams, Bruce,
and Henshawe—was it not so? O Conservative clergymen! O True Blue
disciples of beeswing port! O knife-and-fork apostles! when, mute as
fish, you consented to the speech of Tyrell, and so forgot your Master,
did you not, in your souls, hear “the cock crow”?
Well, Sir James, I do recollect what my old grandmother taught me
of the New Testament; and although I’m but a cabman, I hope I do feel,
if I’d ever had the presumption to compare anybody to the blessed
Saviour, I couldn’t have gone to the barracks for him.
I think the Duke of Wellington has said that “no man who’s nice
about religion should be a soldier!” Perhaps you never heard of this, and
thought that to hunt the French out of Spain was almost quite as great as
to cast out devils.
“The greatest man since the time of our Saviour!” And there have
been no other men, Sir James, sent into the world to pick their fellow-
creatures, as I may say, out of the mud? There have been no Shakspere?
No Newton? No Howard? No! Ball-cartridge has been the true manna of
life; and the words “Feed my sheep” are nothing to “Make ready,
present, fire!”
 But, Sir James, I’ve done. I know you didn’t mean what you said.
No: the truth is, you’re a regular Conservative, and so—like other
darkened folks—you must make an idol out of something. Rather than
have none at all, you’d set up the Duke of Wellington’s bootjack. Still,
among the True Blues, you overshot the mark, and must be by this time
perfectly ashamed of yourself. Nevertheless, your wickedness ought not
to go unpunished: and because, in a port-wine moment, you compared
the Iron Duke to the Lamb of the world, I’d make you undergo a month’s
penance. You should be covered all over with pipeclay, and eat parched
peas off a drum-head.
J H .
 L XXII.—To Mrs Hedgehog, New York.
D G ,—As I don’t think you have any liking for
railways—being, like Colonel Sibthorpe, one of those folks loving the
good old times when travelling was as sober a thing as a waggon and
four horses could make it—I really don’t see how I’m to write you
anything of a letter. There’s nobody in town, and nothing in the papers
but plans of railways, that in a little time will cover all England like a
large spider’s net; and, as in the net, there will be a good many flies
caught and gobbled up by those who spin it. Nevertheless, though I know
you don’t agree with me any more than Colonel Sibthorpe does, it is a
fine sight to open the newspapers and see the railway schemes. What
mountains of money they bring to the mind! And then for the wonders
they’re big with—why, properly considered, aren’t they a thousand times
more wonderful than anything in the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments”?
There we have a flying carriage to be brought to every man’s door! All
England made to shake hands with itself in a few hours! And when
London can in an hour or so go to the Land’s End for a gulp of sea air,
and the Land’s End in the same time come to see the shows of London,
shan’t all of us the better understand one another? shan’t we all be
brought together, and made, as we ought to be, one family of? It’s
coming fast, grandmother. Now pigs can travel, I don’t know how far, at
a halfpenny a head, we don’t hear the talk that used to be of “the swinish
multitude.” And isn’t it a fine thing—I know you don’t think so, but isn’t
it—to know that all that’s been done, and all that’s to do, will be done
because Englishmen have left off cutting other men’s throats? That peace
has done it all! If they oughtn’t to set up a dove with an olive branch at
every railway terminus, I’m an impostor and no true cabman! Yes,
grandmother, peace has done it all! Only think of the iron that had been
melted into cannon, and round-shot and chain-shot, and all other sorts of
shot, that the devils on a holiday play at bowls with!—if the war had
gone on—all the very same iron that’s now peaceably laid upon sleepers!
Think of the iron that had been fired into the sea, and banged through
quiet people’s houses, and sent smashing squares and squares of men—
God’s likenesses in red, blue, and green coats, hired to be killed at so
many pence a day,—only think what would have been this wicked, I will
say it, this blasphemous waste of metal—that, as it is, has been made into
steam-engines! Very fine, indeed, they say, is the roar of artillery; but
what is it to the roar of steam? I never see an engine, with red-hot coals
and its clouds of steam and smoke, that it doesn’t seem to me like a
tremendous dragon that has been tamed by man to carry all the blessings
of civilisation to his fellow-creatures. I’ve read about knights going
through the skies on fiery monsters—but what are they to the engineers,
at two pound five a week? What is any squire among ’em all to the
humblest stoker? And then I’ve read about martial trumpets, why, they
haven’t, to my ears, half the silver in their sound as the railway whistle!
Well, I should like the ghost of Bonaparte to get up some morning, and
take the Times in his thin hands. If he wouldn’t turn yellower than ever
he was at St Helena! There he’d see plans for railways in France—belly
France, as I believe they call it—to be carried out by Frenchmen and
Englishmen. Yes; he wouldn’t see ’em mixing bayonets, trying to poke
’em in one another’s bowels, that a few tons of blood might, as they call
it, water his laurels (how any man can wear laurels at all, I can’t tell, they
must smell so of the slaughter-house!)—he wouldn’t see ’em charging
one another on the battle-field, but quietly ranged cheek by jowl, in the
list of directors! Not exchanging bullets, but clubbing together their hard
cash.
Consider it, grandmother, isn’t it droll! Here, in these very lists, you
see English captains and colonels in company with French viscounts and
barons, and I don’t know what, planning to lay iron down in France—to
civilise and add to the prosperity of Frenchmen! The very captains and
colonels who—but for the peace—would be blowing French ships out of
water, knocking down French houses, and all the while swearing it, and
believing it, too, that Frenchmen were only sent into this world to be
killed by Englishmen, just as boys think frogs were spawned only to be
pelted at! Ah, only give her time, and Peace—timid dove as she is—will
coo down to the trumpet.
Now, grandmother, only to think of Lord Nelson as a railway director
on the Boulogne line to Paris! Well, I know you’ll say it, the world’s
going to be turned upside down. Perhaps it is; and after all, it mightn’t be
the worse now and then for a little wholesome shaking. They do say
there’s to be a rail from Waterloo to Brussels, and the Duke of
Wellington, the Iron Duke, with, I’ve no doubt, iron enough in him for
the whole line, is to be chairman of the directors.
The Prince Joinville is now and then looking about our coasts to find
out, it is said, which is the softest part of us, in the case of a war, to put
his foot upon us. Poor fellow! he’s got the disease of glory; only, as it
sometimes happens with the smallpox, it has struck inward—it can’t
come out upon him. When we’ve railways laid down, as I say, like a
spider’s web all over the country, won’t it be a little hard to catch us
asleep? For, you see, just like the spider’s web, the electric telegraph
(inquire what sort of a thing it is, for I haven’t time to tell you)—the
electric telegraph will touch a line of the web, when down will come a
tremendous spider in a red coat with all sorts of murder about him!
Mind, grandmother, let us hope it never will happen; but when folks
who’d molest us, know it can come about, won’t they let us alone?
Depend upon it, we’re binding war over to keep the peace, and the bonds
are made of railway iron!
You’d hardly think it—you who used to talk to me about the beauty
of glory (I know you meant nothing but the red coats and the fine
epaulets; for that so often is woman’s notion of glory, though, bless ’em!
they’re among the first to make lint, and cry over the sons of glory, with
gashes spoiling all their fine feathers)—and you’d hardly think it, but
they’re going to put up a statue to the man who first made boiling water
to run upon a rail. It’s quite true: I read it only a day or two ago. They’re
going to fix up a statue to George Stephenson at Newcastle. How you
will cast up your dear old eyes when you hear of this! you, who’ve only
thought that statues should be put up to Queen Anne, and George the
Third, and his nice son, George the Fourth, and such people! I should
only like a good many of the statues here in London, to be made to take a
cheap train down to Newcastle, to see it. If, dirty as they are—and dirty
as they were—they wouldn’t blush as red as a new copper halfpenny!
Why, those statues—especially when they’ve queens and kings in ’em—
are the most unfeelingest of metal! What a lot of mangled bodies, and
misery, and housebreaking, and wickedness of all sorts, carried on and
made quite lawful by a uniform, may we see—if we choose to see at all
—about the statue of what is called a conqueror! What a firing of houses,
what shame—that, because you’re a woman, I won’t more particularly
write about—we might look upon under the statue, that is only so high,
because it has so much wickedness to stand upon! If the statue could feel
at all, wouldn’t it put up its hands, and hide its face, although it was
made of the best of bronze? But Mr Stephenson will look kindly and
sweetly about him; he will know that he has carried comfort, and
knowledge, and happiness to the doors of millions!—that, that he has
brought men together, that they might know and love one another. This is
something like having a statue! I’m sure of it—when George the Fourth
is made to hear the news (for kings are so very long before the truth
comes to ’em), he’d like to gallop off to the first melter’s and go at once
into the nothing that men think him.
And besides all this, the railways have got a king! When you hear of
a king in England, I know your old thoughts go down to Westminster
Abbey, and you think of nothing but bishops and peers, and all that sort
of thing, kissing the king’s cheeks, and the holy oil put upon the royal
head, that the crown, I suppose, may sit the more comfortably upon it;
but this is another sort of king, Mr King Hudson the First. I have read
somewhere at a bookstall, that Napoleon was crowned with the Iron
Crown of Italy. Well, King Hudson has been crowned with the Iron
Crown of England!—a crown melted out of pig-iron, and made in a
railway furnace.
I’ve somewhere seen the picture of the River Nile, that with the
lifting of his finger made the river flow over barren land, and leave there
all sorts of blessings. Well, King Hudson is of this sort; he has made the
molten iron flow over all sorts of places, and so bring forth good fruits
wherever it went.—So no more, from your affectionate grandson,
J H .
 L XXIII.—To Mrs Hedgehog, New York.
D G ,—Of course you must have heard of the potato
blight. There are some subjects that women don’t want newspapers to
teach ’em about, and “potatoes is one.” I can’t tell how your red Yorks
and Kidneys may be in your part of the world: with us, they’re things to
weep over. But, of course, your potatoes are all right: you’ve done
nothing to bring down rot upon ’em from heaven. But it’s very different
with us, grandmother. Our potato blight was got up by her Majesty’s
Ministers, and—would you think it?—consented to by her blessed
Majesty! It is now as plain as light that the great Maynooth has done it
all! One William Ferrie—who writes in a hair shirt, with a girdle of
tenpenny nails next his skin—has let out the terrible secret in the
Witness, an Edinburgh paper (Nov. 8). He groans as follows:—
“Had we set ourselves to consider by what display of His
sovereignty the Lord could most thoroughly and very severely
have distressed Ireland, whilst He in some degree afflicted
also both England and Scotland, in token of His indignation at
the sin of their joint rulers in enacting that which, whilst it
insulted Him, was justified on the plea that it would benefit
Ireland, could we have conceived a more effectual one than
the blasting of the potato crop!”
Now, grandmother, this, I know, is stuff after your own heart. Popery
is at the root of the root! The Lord has been insulted; and His terrible
vengeance is a blight upon potatoes! There can be no doubt that this is
the fact—a fact so after the good old times! Nevertheless, for my part, I
think it rather hard that Protestant potatoes—potatoes that, if they could
talk, would cry, “No surrender!”—should suffer equally with potatoes of
Roman Catholic principles. I know it’s very conceited in me to give an
opinion against men like William Ferrie—men who always bawl and
scribble (I’ve heard ’em in their pulpits, as well as read their stuff in
print) as if they were nothing less than livery servants to Providence, and
knew all the household secrets! And Willy Ferrie, depend on ’t, is flunky
after this fashion.
A rotten potato is a rotten potato—at least so I should have thought it
afore I’d been taught better by ranting Willy; but now, I can see into the
thing just as well as if Erasmus Wilson—the magician of the microscope
—had lent me his glass, and his eyes and brains into the bargain. I can
see into the decayed parts, for I won’t bother your dear head with hard
words (though when a man’s got ’em for the first time, he likes to sport
’em), and can behold nothing but what you used to call “the murdering
Papishes.” I’ve a ’tato before me, as rotten as the heart of any talking
’tato that ever spouted blarney in the face of starvation. Well, with the
microscope, I can see the Old Woman in Scarlet, with her toe polished
with holy kisses—cardinals and abbots, and friars and priests, in white
and red and gold—and canopies, and dolls of the Virgin, and saints, and
little boys swinging censers. I can see all this by the assistance of Willie
Ferrie—all of it in one potato—as plainly as once I saw all sorts of
sharks in a drop of New River water. I shall write this blessed night to Sir
Andrew Agnew (by the way, dear grandmother, it was said that Sir
Andrew was lately caught in a Sunday train—but it isn’t true: it’s now
proved to be somebody I won’t mention to you, who sometimes, out of
spite to the Baronet, goes about in his likeness)—I’ll write to Sir
Andrew, and get him to give a Potato Lecture, after this fashion, at
Exeter Hall. If with one potato he wouldn’t make the women cry, then
there’s no weeping to be got out of an onion! Sir Andrew with one rotten
potato, like David with a smooth pebble, would kill Goliath Peel as dead
as Tamworth mutton.
And yet when it’s plain that it’s the Maynooth Grant, and not the wet
—certainly not the wet—that’s rotted the potato, we find big-wig doctors
sent to Ireland (a further insult to Providence, grandmother) to inquire, as
it is presumptuously said, into the cause of the disease. Why, I know
what you or any other good old woman would have done; after you’d
tasted the Maynooth Grant—and there’s no mistaking the flavour—in
your early kidneys, you’d at once have stopped the rot;—and how would
you have done it? Why, you’d have got the Queen to send a message to
Parliament, to order a repeal of the Maynooth Grant. Of course you
would. But no: sinful men are made foolhardy by success. Because,
when they granted Catholic ’Mancipation, the fly spared our turnips, it
was thought we could give money to Maynooth College, and yet save
our ’tatoes! Ha! Dear grandmother, when you take your kidney baked,
steamed, or mashed, think of us sinners, and say a short prayer for us.
I’d forgotten to tell you that the potatoes in Belgium are as bad, or
even worse, than ours. Besides the wet, I can’t precisely tell the cause of
this; because there’s been no Maynooth Grant there, nearly all the
wicked people being Catholics,—but then, I suppose, that’s it. Mr Flunky
Ferrie declares that “the present judgment is connected with Popery.”
There’s no doubt of it:—
“The blight being general over three kingdoms, points out
the rulers of the land as the persons whose sin has secured it;
and the blight being in the potato crop, directs attention to
their dealings with Ireland as the particular sins which have
immediately called it down.”
This is, doubtless, true enough, and no less true because the whole
people must suffer for the dozen rulers. Now, had the blight fallen only
upon Tamworth, or Strathfieldsaye, or all the ’tatoes of all the Ministers,
the disease would doubtless have been hushed up. Yes,—it was
necessary that every man should suffer in his potatoes; not only the
sinful Protestant who consented to the Grant, but the lucky Catholics
who accepted it. The judgment fell upon all tribes alike—the tribes of the
Established Church and of the Church of Babylon. The Bishop of
London’s ’tatoes are in as forlorn a way as the ’tatoes of the Irish Lion of
Judah: that’s some comfort, grandmother.
Well, and what does this blight say to the Catholics—what does
every potato cry (with the little voice that what they call tubercular
consumption has left it)—what does it cry to the “Papishes,” but,
“Change your religion, and henceforth be happy in your ’tatoes!” At
first, I thought this change of religion a ticklish matter; but when I see
how easily the nobs—the bright examples of the world—do it, why, it’s
only conceit in smaller people to hesitate: for I’ve just read a long story
about the Emperor Nicholas, who’s in Italy with his poor dying wife. (By
the way, it seems that the Emperor, like many other folks, is such a good-
tempered, jolly fellow when he’s out, that it’s a pity he should ever go
home again.) The Emperor’s daughter, the Duchess Olga (a good playbill
name, isn’t it?) was to marry an Austrian Archduke; but her father
wouldn’t let her alter her religion from the Greek to the Catholic Church.
Now, however, Nicholas has thought better of it,—and his daughter may
change her religion for a husband, just as she’ll put on a new gown to be
married in. When emperors and kings play at hustle-cap with creeds,
isn’t it downright impudence in mere nobodies to be nice!
When I think, though, that the Maynooth Grant has brought the rot in
potatoes, I can’t help looking round about the world, and fearing what
may by-and-by become of us for our friendship with heathens. We take
tea of the Chinese—a people, evidently an insult to heaven—though long
put up with, and mustering hundreds of millions. Doesn’t Mr Ferrie fear
that some day all us men may rise in the morning with pig-tails, and the
women get up with a little foot apiece? We buy rhubarb from the wicked
Turk. A time may come when—for a visitation—the drug may deceive
all the doctors, and Old Gooseberry only know what mischief may
happen! We get tallow from Russia. How do I know that I mayn’t in
every six to a pound, without thinking of it, set up a candle to the Greek
Church! Will Flunky Ferrie think of these things?—for there are many of
his kidney who’d like to be enlightened.
But, O grandmother! perhaps the worst is to come. The Church is
really now in danger! I’ve not had a fare up Ludgate Hill lately, but I’ve
no doubt St Paul’s is cracked from top to bottom. Would you believe it?
David Salomons, the late Sheriff (who was sweetly cheated out of his
gown as Alderman, the said gown being now on the shoulders of
Church-and-State Moon, Esq.)—David Salomons, a Jew, has given
£1666, 13s. 4d. to buy a scholarship of £50 a year for the city of London,
and the city—Gog and Magog quivered as with ague—has been mean
enough to take it. Oh for the good old times, when they used to spit upon
Jews in the Exchange! And now we take their money from ’em! I know
you’ll think it a blow at the Church. The scholarship is said to be “open
to members of every religious persuasion;” this is a flam-blind. The gift
is a sly attack on the Established Church. It is the evident intention of the
Minories to turn us all Jews. Never has there been such a blow struck at
the vested interests of Smithfield Pig-market. Sir Robert Inglis—whom I
took up at Exeter Hall a night or two ago—says, in two years there’ll be
a grand Rabbi in Lambeth Palace.—Your affectionate grandson,
J H .
THE END.
 FOOTNOTES
1 The Duke has, doubtless to the astonishment of Mr Nutts when he shall
learn it, suggested a more rapid reformation.
2 Eu.
 Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in
hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARBER'S
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