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IRELAND.

[From the Morning Chronicle, May 23.]

"The circumstance of Ireland being unable at present to raise her own taxes, is no ground of alarm for her prosperity." Mr. Foster's Budget Speech.

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THERE is something so curiously and comfortably paradoxical in this assertion, that it certainly demands a little time and consideration to reconcile it to the general notions, which, from time inmemorial, have been entertained on the subject of national prosperity,

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Swift said long ago, and nobody knew Ireland better, that “no maxim of national prosperity, applicable to other countries, was verified with regard to Ireland; her population was not wealth, her fertility was not abundance, her ingenuity was not revenue;' but it remained for Mr. Foster to add to this list of political singularities, that the inability to pay taxes, was not a ground of alarm as to her prosperity.

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Ireland, like an embarrassed tradesman in the ago nies of white-washing, is, according to her interpreter in the Imperial Parliament, Mr. Foster, a little slow to be sure, but very solvent ; not a bankrupt, only soliciting time; no statute yet taken out, but ready to give bills at twelve and eighteen months; not shut up and gazetted, but still going on with every prospect of ultimately paying twenty shillings in the pound. This must be highly satisfactory intelligence to her creditors, who, with every reliance on these protestations, will, doubtless, continue their loans, particularly since they have the additional security (through the disinterested aid of Mr. Perceval) of the English consolidated fund, which has kindly consented to indorse the Irish bill of contingent prosperity, and give it a temporary currency; Ireland being always considered pledged for her full quota, which she is to pay whenever she is able,

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together with the interest so handsomely advanced on the present occasion by England, and all the other expenses of English agency. But Ireland cannot raise her taxes," says a caviller, and how can Mr. Perceval reconcile this to his high-finished portrait of the prosperity of the United Kingdom, of which Ireland is an integral and very important part?-How comes it, that while Great Britain is so well managed as to be capable of raising her taxes to a surplus, Ireland has fallen off so lamentably in the levying of hers?-Is she unable to pay, or unwilling P-Is she poor or refractory-Perhaps she has been misgoverned; ah!. there's the rub; but let us see: The political godfa thers and godmothers, who in the year 1800 gave us the sponsorial appellation of United Kingdom, did, it is shrewdly suspected, promise and vow things in her name, which they well knew their god-child could never fulfil; she was bound to pay more than her es tate, even under good management, was able to produce; and which the ignorance and interestedness of her agents rendered still less productive. Under these circumstances, it was not wonderful that she grew pro gressively poorer and poorer; that she drank less wine. and tea, and put a smaller quantity of currants in her puddings, made fewer shifts, and of a coarser linen, and fell into a state of despondency and whiskey-drinking, for which solace, her gratitude is unbounded to Mr. Foster, who, kindly compassionating her melancholy, took off the duty from her favourite beverage. But this will not last; oh! no; though matters are a little dull at present, they will very soon revive; in two or three years, under the wise and successful management of Mr. Foster, there is no estimating the state in which Ireland may be placed. About that period, the Bog of Allen will be completely surveyed and divided into farms, which will only want the quality of being habitable, to render them most valuable

concerns.

concerns. The grand measure of putting down illicit distillation, by the discouragement of the breweries, and the general intoxication of the Irish population, will, by that time, be also consummated. Who can look forward to this situation of things, without the most rapturous feelings of joy and triumph? Even Mr. Perceval, that true friend to Ireland, must, in the recesses of his cabinet, drop the tear of delight over such an anticipation, and, true to the principles of the immortal Pilot, now no more, and his artificial system of finance, hug his friend and coadjutor and fellow disciple, Mr. Foster, who has established such an admirable proof of Pitt's paradoxical policy, in the state to which Ireland has been reduced under his administration, "unable at present to raise her taxes, yet not at all impaired in her resources (no, they are, in the Pitt phrase, inexhaustible), nor under any the slightest alarm for her prosperity !" ·

Lay this to heart, ye jobbers and contractors-go on and prosper, having for your security the prosperity of Ireland, propped on a fund of consolidated paper. Your adoration of Perceval, and your trust in Foster, will, doubtless, meet with their deserved reward. So be it, says

A SOBER IRISHMAN.

IMPROMPTU

FOR THE MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB ON TUESDAY.

[From the Morning Post, May 24-]

FROM

ROM the sturdy Pitt club may a good knock-down blow
Put an end to unsound reformation;

And a pil-fall be theirs, whose intention we know
Is the downfall of worth in the nation.

TRUTHANTE

PETITION

PETITION FOR A THIRD THEATRE,
[From the Morning Chronicle, May 25.]
REAT Sirs, behold how Kemble doats!
To classic taste a stranger;
His Pegasus is fed on oats,

His Muses bite the manger.
Then let him too the bridle bite,
And yield his forfeit charter;
So may Monk Lewis Timour write,
And Kemble catch a Tartar.

ODE

IN COMMEMORATION OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH
DAY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM FITT.
[From the Morning Post, May 28.]

WHEN mortals quit this earthly sphere,
Unhallow'd by the Muse's lyre,
Repose, inglorious, on the bier,

Nor general sympathy inspire;
Though friendship their departure mourn,
Though costly tombs their dust enclose,
Fame o'er the bust, or storied urn,

The mantle of oblivion throws.

Not such his fate (whate'er his birth)
Whose deeds a nation's blessings crown,
Whose talents speak his inbred worth;
The author of his own renown;
Resplendent as the orb of day,

Upon his course with awe we gaze,
Revere the turf that wraps his clay,

Embalm his ashes with our praise.
Amid the wise, the brave, the great,

Who, fir'd with an enthusiast's zeal,
Liv'd to adorn and serve the State,

Or perish'd for their country's weal;

If peerless one,-'mid souls so blest,
Who liv'd admir'd, lamented died;
Truth, honour, gratitude attest,

That man was Pitt,-Britannia's pride!
Firm as the cliffs this isle that bind,
Unsway'd by flattery, power, or gold,
His daring and enlighten'd mind

The factious curb'd, the base controll'd.
In prosperous scenes his greatness shone;
In adverse gales, at ills unmov'd,
His eloquence upheld the Throne,

His virtues sav'd the land he lov'd.

Nay, baneful as th' electric beam,
When mad ambition, unrestrain'd,
More ruthless than the whelming stream,
Laid kingdoms waste, and states enchain'd
Pitt, like th' imperial bird of Jove,

Mocking the bolts at FREEDOM hurl'd,
To glory tower'd,-made Britain prove
The stay and safeguard of the world.
Combin'd in his exalted form,

All that the hero, patriot, sage
Inspir'd, the youthful breast to warm,
In Greece, or Latium's purest age:
Should feuds distract, or doubts arise,
His spirit, like the polar star,
Shall shine, a mirror to the wise,

A beacon true, in peace and war.
Votive to worth so great, each year

(Surpassing sculpture's magic art) An intellectual shrine we rear,

And stamp his image on the heart; That, till the spark of heavenly flame,

Which fires each bosom, cease to glow, Britons may venerate his name

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The source from whence their comforts flow.in &

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