the Roman persuasion, wash his pug-dogs in holy water, and
confiscate the salt butter of the Milesian republic to the last tub?
But what matters this? or who is wise enough in Ireland to heed it?
or when had common sense much influence with my poor dear Irish?
Mr. Perceval does not know the Irish; but I know them, and I know
that at every rash and mad hazard they will break the Union, revenge
their wounded pride and their insulted religion, and fling
themselves into the open arms of France, sure of dying in the
embrace. And now, what means have you of guarding against this
coming evil, upon which the future happiness or misery of every
Englishman depends? Have you a single ally in the whole world? Is
there a vulnerable point in the French empire where the astonishing
resources of that people can be attracted and employed? Have you a
ministry wise enough to comprehend the danger, manly enough to
believe unpleasant intelligence, honest enough to state their
apprehensions at the peril of their places? Is there anywhere the
slightest disposition to join any measure of love, or conciliation,
or hope, with that dreadful bill which the distractions of Ireland
have rendered necessary? At the very moment that the last Monarchy
in Europe has fallen, are we not governed by a man of pleasantry,
and a man of theology? In the six hundredth year of our empire over
Ireland, have we any memorial of ancient kindness to refer to? any
people, any zeal, any country on which we can depend? Have we any
hope, but in the winds of heaven and the tides of the sea? any
prayer to prefer to the Irish, but that they should forget and
forgive their oppressors, who, in the very moment that they are
calling upon them for their exertions, solemnly assure them that the
oppression shall still remain?

Abraham, farewell! If I have tired you, remember how often you have