CATILINE, ON HEARING HIS SENTENCE OF

BANISHMENT.

BANISHED from Rome! What's banished, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!"-Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?

Banished?—I thank you for 't. It breaks my chains!
I held some slack allegiance till

this hour;
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you:-here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.

Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.
"Traitor!" I go-but I return. This trial!-
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrows!-This hour's work Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearth's my

lords;

For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus !-all shames and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and ax,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Til anarchy comes down on you like night,
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

[Oroly.

THE IRISH DISTURBANCE BILL.

I Do not rise to fawn or cringe to this house; I do not rise to supplicate you to be merciful toward the nation to which I belong, toward a nation which, though subject to England, yet is distinct from it. It is a distinct nation: it has been treated as such by this country, as may be proved by history, and by seven hundred years of tyranny. I call upon this house, as you value the liberty of England, not to allow the present nefarious bill to pass. In it are involved the liberties of England, the liberty of the press, and of every other institution dear to Englishmen.

Against the bill I protest in the name of the Irish people, and in the face of Heaven. I treat with scorn the puny and pitiful assertions that grievances are not to be complained of, that our redress is not to be agitated; for, in such cases, remonstrances can not be too strong, agitation can not be too violent, to show to the world with what injustice our fair claims are met, and under what tyranny the people suffer.

There are two frightful clauses in this bill. The one which does away with trial by jury, and which I have called upon you to baptize: you call it a court-martial,— a mere nickname; I stigmatize it as a revolutionary tribunal. What, in the name of Heaven, is it, if it is not a revolutionary tribunal? It annihilates the trial by jury; it drives the judge from his bench,—the man who, from experience, could weigh the nice and delicate points of a case,-who could discriminate between the straightforward testimony and the suborned evidence,— who could see, plainly and readily, the justice or injustice of the accusation. It turns out this man who is

free, unshackled, unprejudiced,—who has no previous opinions to control the clear exercise of his duty. You do away with that which is more sacred than the throne itself; that for which your king reigns, your lords deliberate, your commons assemble.

If ever I doubted before of the success of our agitation for repeal, this bill, this infamous bill, the way in which it has been received by the house, the manner in which its opponents have been treated, the personalities to which they have been subjected, the yells with which one of them has this night been greeted,—all these things dissipate my doubts, and tell me of its complete and early triumph. Do you think those yells will be forgotten? Do you suppose their echo will not reach the plains of my injured and insulted country; that they will not be whispered in her green valleys, and heard from her lofty hills? Oh! they will be heard there: yes, and they will not be forgotten. The youth of Ireland will bound with indignation; they will say, "We are eight millions: and you treat us thus, as though we were no more to your country than the isle of Guernsey or of Jersey!"

I have done my duty; I stand acquitted to my conscience and my country: I have opposed this measure throughout; and I now protest against it as harsh, oppressive, uncalled for, unjust, as establishing an infamous precedent by retaliating crime against crime; as tyrannous, cruelly and vindictively tyrannous.

THE MISERIES OF IRELAND.

[Daniel O'Connel.

ENGLISHMEN, look at Ireland! what do you behold?a beautiful country, with wonderful agricultural and

commercial advantages,-the link between America and Europe, the natural resting-place of trade, in its way to either hemisphere; indented with havens, watered by deep and numerous rivers, with a fortunate climate, and a soil teeming with easy fertility, and inhabited by a bold, intrepid, and,-with all their faults,-a generous and enthusiastic people.

Such is natural Ireland: what is artificial Ireland? Such is Ireland, as God made her: what is Ireland, as England made her?

This fine country is laden with a population the most miserable in Europe. Your domestic swine are better housed than the people. Harvests, the most abundant, are reaped by men with starvation in their faces; famine covers a fruitful soil; and disease inhales a pure atmosphere all the great commercial facilities of the country are lost; the deep rivers, that should circulate opulence, and turn the machinery of a thousand manufactures, flow to the ocean without wafting a boat or turning a wheel; and the wave breaks in solitude in the silent magnificence of deserted and shipless harbors.

Instead of being a source of wealth and revenue to the empire, Ireland can not defray her own expenses, or pay a single tax. Instead of being a bulwark and fortress, she debilitates, exhausts, and endangers England, and offers an allurement to the speculators in universal ruin.

The great mass of her enormous population is alienated and dissociated from the state; the influence of the constituted and legitimate authorities is gone; a strange, anomalous, and an unexampled kind of government has sprung up from the public passions, and exercises a despotic sway over the great mass of the community; while

the class inferior in numbers, but accustomed to authority, and infuriated at its loss, are thrown into formidable reaction. The most ferocious passions rage from one extremity of the country to the other. Hundreds and thousands of men, arrayed with badges, gather in the south; and the smaller factions, with discipline and arms, are marshaled in the north. The country is strewed with the materials of civil commotion, and seems like one vast magazine of powder, which a spark might ignite into an explosion that would shake the whole fabric of civil society into ruin, and of which England would perhaps never recover from the shock.

QUEER SERMON ON A QUEER TEXT.

[Shiel.

BELOVED, let me crave your attention. I am a little man, come at a short notice, to preach a short sermon, from a short text, to a thin congregation, in an unworthy pulpit. Beloved, my text is Malt.

I can not divide it into sentences, their being none; nor into words, there being but one. I must, therefore, of necessity, divide it into letters, which I find in my text to be these four,-M.A.L.T.

M-is Moral.

A-is Allegorical.

L-is Literal.

T—is Theological.

The moral is, to teach you rustics good manners; therefore, M-my Masters, A-All of you, L-Leave off, T-Tippling.

The Allegorical is, when one thing is spoken of and another meant. The thing spoken of is malt; the thing meant is the spirit of malt, which you rustics make