e us our Penates; this theft, which
embodies the antithesis of Shakspeare, is not only "trash," but
"naught enriches them, and makes us poor indeed."

Repeal the union, and you remedy this. You'll have him at home with
you--not masquerading about in the disguise of a gentleman--not
restricted by the habits of cultivated and civilised life--not tamed
down into the semblance and mockery of good conduct--no longer the
chained-up animal of the menagerie, but the roaring, rampant lion,
roaming at large in his native forest--not performing antics before
some political Van Amburgh--not opening his huge jaws, as though he
would devour the Whigs, and shutting them again at the command of his
keeper--but howling in all the freedom of his passion, and lashing his
brawny sides with his vigorous "tail." Haydn, the composer, had an
enormous appetite; to gratify which, when dining at a tavern, he
ordered a dinner for three. The waiter delayed in serving, as he said
the company hadn't yet arrived, but Haydn told him to bring it up at
once, remarking, as he patted complacently his paunch, "I am de
compagnie myself." Such will you have the case in your domestic
parliament--Dan will be the company himself. No longer fighting in the
ranks of opposition, or among the supporters of a government--no more
the mere character of a piece, he will then be the Jack Johnson of the
political world, taking the money at the door--in which he has had
some practice already--he will speak the prologue, lead the
orchestra, prompt the performers, and announce a repetition of the
farce every night of the week for his own benefit. Only think what he
is in England with his "forty thieves" at his back, and imagine what
he will be in Ireland without one honest man to oppose him. He will
indeed then be well worth seeing, and if Ireland had no other
attraction, foreigners might visit us for a look at the Liberator.

He is a droll fellow, is Dan, and there is a strong dash of native
humour in his notion of repeal. What strange scenes, to be sure, it
would conjure up. Only think for a moment of the absentee lord, an
exiled peer, coming back to Dublin after an absence of half his
lifetime, vainly endeavouring to seem pleased with his condition, and
appear happy with his home. Like an insolvent debtor affecting to joke
with the jailer, watch him simulating so much as he can of habits he
has long forgotten, while his ignorance of his country is such, that
he cannot d