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deep anxiety to do us justice-even Strafford, the deserter of the people's cause-the renegade Wentworth, who gave evidence in Ireland of the spirit of instinctive tyranny which predominated in his character-even Strafford, while he trampled upon our rights, and trod upon the heart of the country, protested his solicitude to do justice to Ireland. What marvel is it, then, that gentlemen opposite should deal in such vehement protestations?

There is, however, one man of great abilities, not a member of this House, but whose talents and whose boldness have placed him in the topmost place in his party-who, disdaining all imposture, and thinking it the best course to appeal directly to the religious and national antipathies of the people of this country-abandoning all reserve, and flinging off the slender veil by which his political associates affect to cover, although they cannot hide, their motives— distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen; and pronounces them, in any particular which could enter his minute enumeration of the circumstances by which fellowcitizenship is created, in race, identity, and religion-to be aliens to be aliens in race, to be aliens in country, to be aliens in religion. Aliens! good God! was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim: "Hold! I have seen the aliens do their duty!" The Duke of Wellington is not a man of an excitable temperament. His mind is of a cast too martial to be easily moved; but, notwithstanding his habitual inflexibility, I cannot help thinking that when he heard his Roman Catholic countrymen (for we are his countrymen) designated by a phrase as offensive as the abundant vocabulary of his eloquent confederate could supply-I cannot help thinking that he ought to have recollected the many fields of fight in which we have been contributors to his renown. "The battles, sieges, fortunes, that he has passed" ought to have come back upon him. He ought to have remembered that, from the earliest achievement in which he displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat which has made his name imperishable from Assaye to Waterloo-the Irish soldiers, with whom your armies are filled, were the inseparable aux

iliaries to the glory with which his unparalleled successes have been crowned. Whose were the arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through the phalanxes that had never before reeled in the shock of war? What desperate valor climbed the steeps and filled the moats at Badajos?

All his victories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory-Vimiera, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse, and, last of all, the greatest-tell me, for you were there I appeal to the gallant soldier before me [Sir Henry Hardinge], from whose opinions I differ, but who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast-tell me, for you must needs remember-on that day when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance— while death fell in showers-when the artillery of France was leveled with a precision of the most deadly science when her legions, incited by the voice, and inspired by the example of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset-tell me if, for an instant, when to hesitate for an instant was to be lost, the "aliens" blenched? And when at length the moment for the last and decisive movement had arrived, and the valor which had so long been wisely checked was at last let loosewhen, with words familiar, but immortal, the great captain commanded the great assault-tell me, if Catholic Ireland, with less heroic valor than the natives of this your own glorious country, precipitated herself upon the foe? The blood of England, Scotland, and of Ireland flowed in the same stream, and drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited-the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust -the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in every peril-in the glory shall we not be permitted to participate? and shall we be told, as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out?


From 'Sketches of the Irish Bar.'

If any one being a stranger in Dublin should chance, as you return upon a winter's morning from one of the "small and early" parties of that raking metropolis-that is to say, between the hours of five and six o'clock-to pass along the south side of Merrion Square,1 you will not fail to observe that among those splendid mansions there is one evidently tenanted by a person whose habits differ materially from those of his fashionable neighbors. The half-open parlor shutter and the light within announce that some one dwells there whose time is too precious to permit him to regulate his rising with the sun. Should your curiosity tempt you to ascend the steps and under cover of the dark to reconnoiter the interior, you will see a tall, able-bodied man standing at a desk and immersed in solitary occupation. Upon the wall in front of him there hangs a crucifix. From this and from the calm attitude of the person within, and from a certain monastic rotundity about his neck and shoulders, your first impression will be that he must be some pious dignitary of the Church of Rome absorbed in his matin devotions.

But this conjecture will be rejected almost as soon as formed. No sooner can the eye take in the other furniture of the apartment-the book-cases, clogged with tomes in plain calfskin binding, the blue-covered octavos that lie about on the tables and the floor, the reams of manuscript in oblong folds and begirt with crimson tape-than it becomes evident that the party meditating amid such objects must be thinking far more of the law than the prophets. He is unequivocally a barrister, but apparently of that homely, chamber-keeping, plodding cast who labor hard to make up by assiduity what they want in wit, who are up and stirring before the bird of the morning has sounded the retreat to the wandering specter, and are already braindeep in the dizzy vortex of mortgages and cross-reminders and mergers and remitters, while his clients, still lapped in

1 One of the principal squares in Dublin. There O'Connell resided for about thirty years.

sweet oblivion of the law's delay, are fondly dreaming that their cause is peremptorily set down for a final hearing. Having come to this conclusion, you push on for home, blessing your stars on the way that you are not a lawyer, and sincerely compassionating the sedentary drudge whom you have just detected in the performance of his cheerless toil.

But should you happen in the course of the same day to stroll down to the Four Courts, you will not be a little surprised to find the object of your pity miraculously transferred from the severe recluse of the morning into one of the most bustling, important and joyous personages in that busy scene. There you will be sure to see him, his countenance braced up and glistening with health and spirits, with a huge, plethoric bag, which his robust arm can scarcely sustain, clasped with paternal fondness to his breast, and environed by a living palisade of clients and attorneys with outstretched necks, and mouths and ears agape to catch up any chance opinion that may be coaxed out of him in a colloquial way, or listening to what the client relishes still better (for in no event can they be slided into a bill of costs), the counselor's bursts of jovial and familiar humor, or, when he touches on a sadder strain, his prophetic assurance that the hour of Ireland's redemption is at hand. You perceive at once that you have lighted upon a great popular advocate; and if you take the trouble to follow his movements for a couple of hours through the several courts, you will not fail to discover the qualities that have made him so-his legal competency, his business-like habits, his sanguine temperament, which render him not merely the advocate, but the partisan of his client, his acuteness, his fluency of thought and language, his unconquerable good-humor, and, above all, his versatility.

By the hour of three, when the judges usually rise, you will have seen him go through a quantity of business the preparation for and the performance of which would be sufficient to wear down an ordinary constitution, and you naturally suppose that the remaining portion of the day must, of necessity, be devoted to recreation or repose. But here again you will be mistaken; for should you feel disposed, as you return from the courts, to drop into any

of the public meetings that are almost daily held for some purpose, or to no purpose, in Dublin,1 to a certainty you will find the counselor there before you, the presiding spirit of the scene, riding in the whirlwind and directing the storm of popular debate with a strength of lungs and redundancy of animation as if he had that moment started fresh for the labors of the day. There he remains until, by dint of strength or dexterity, he has carried every point; and thence, if you would see him to the close of the day's "eventful history," you will, in all likelihood, have to follow him to a public dinner from which, after having acted a conspicuous part in the turbulent festivity of the evening and thrown off half a dozen speeches in praise of Ireland, he retires at a late hour to repair the wear and tear of the day by a short interval of repose, and is sure to be found before daybreak next morning at his solitary post, recommencing the routine of his restless existence. Now, any one who has once seen in the preceding situations the able-bodied, able-minded, acting, talking, multifarious person I have been just describing has no occasion to inquire his name. He may be assured that he is and can be no other than "Kerry's pride and Munster's glory," the far-famed and indefatigable Daniel O'Connell.

His frame is tall, expanded, and muscular, precisely such as befits a man of the people; for the physical classes ever look with double confidence and affection upon a leader who represents in his own person the qualities upon which they rely. In his face he has been equally fortunate; it is extremely comely. The features are at once soft and manly; the florid glow of health and a sanguine temperament is diffused over the whole countenance, which is national in the outline, and beaming with national emotion. The expression is open and confiding, and inviting confidence; there is not a trace of malignity or guile; if there were, the bright and sweet blue eyes, the most kindly and honest-looking that can be conceived, would repel the imputation. These popular gifts of nature O'Connell has not neglected to set off by his external carriage and deportment; or perhaps I should rather say that the same hand which has molded the exterior has supersaturated

1 This sketch was written in 1823, six years before Catholic Emanciadtion was an accomplished fact.

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