and placing his felon hand above the _vacuum_ on the left side of his
bosom--declares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile
blush--that he is by no means the _Tory_ his wicked, heartless enemies
would call him. Certainly not. His name is--_Conservative!_ There was,
once, to be sure, a _Tory_--in existence;

"But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!"

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon
monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections
in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a
phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a _Tory_ kissing hands
in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, and _Conservative_ is taken into
service. Once more, he is the _factotum_ to JOHN BULL. But when the knave
shall have worn out his second name--when he shall again be turned
away--look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous,
leathern-eared Mr. BULL--be sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years' hunger for
the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined them into
a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at a more
comprehensive grasp of intellect--that they are ennobled by a loftier
consideration of the social rights of man--that they are gifted with a
more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present iniquitous
system of society, reduce him to little less than pining idiotcy, or
madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges, sleek as
their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the government--the government
that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to itself the