Burke Manuscript

Burke Manuscript: Page 272

Transcript

Old Time Stories, by An Ancient

Twenty-five or more years ago. No Parliament house in those days, no vaulted chamber and gaudy windows for the old Provincial Council. A simple room in what afterwards became, under the landlordship of George Oram, the Clarendon Hotel, sufficed for the oratory of those days. But opened with all the formalities and all the ceremonial of greater days.

And yet there was talent. The old original British blood was still in full force. There was Joseph Brittan, father of your friend, with his bitter sarcastic eloquent tongue, a past master at his work. He was one of the pioneers of journalism in the City, and I believe, with the late Mr James Willis, was owner of the defunct Standard. It was published on the corner block next Harper’s, afterwards turned into a public. By the way, do you new generation know, that many years ago, headed by Mr John Ollivier, the old Licensing Act was invaded, and, by getting the signatures of twelve neighbours and householders, that a house and applicant were suitable, the Bench had no option but to grant the License. The thing became too ridiculous. Licensed Houses were everywhere. To return, Mr B. was not a popular man. His manner was repellant [sic]. There was in him an expression that spoke of domineering insincerity. The crowd disliked him. They gave him a name – and it stuck. Watercress Joey. As the Duke of Norfolk in the bad potato times, talked of rice and curry for the poor, so Brittan insisted that labourers ought to be contented with three or four shillings a day, for, could they not get plenty of watercress out of the winding Avon which Cockneydom would only be too glad to buy? That was his view of the labour and food question. It was simple, but in homely colonial language, it wouldn’t wash. He’s gone. Of the dead, say nothing if not good. A rule by the way, historians and others, so where to. Vide, Mr Carlyle and others.

There was Fitz – James Edward Fitzgerald, the present placeholder, comptroller general, or well paid something or other, who threw the wasted bombshell into the Ministerial camp the other day. He was the founder of the Press newspaper, now controlled by the immortal Mr Briggs, in which by the way, no writing with the ring of Fitz’ former times leaders, now appears. Who, of the old ones, does not remember that humorous, stinging, chaffing, sarcastic essay on the Green grocer, an unfortunate now gone, who had got into the meshes of a well known Israelitish, pawnbroking, peddling, money lending Jew, the first of his breed, seed and generation, who hung his shingle out in the Cathedral city, next to what was once a pie shop, but now the great City Hotel. The way in which Fitz played upon the greenness of the green grocer, who called himself a smart man and the tactics of the spider when once the fly was in the web, was delightful, original, and relishing. The very thing suitable for your columns. Good wholesome chaff