T H EWP I-I CE N I-X‘. were placed there by the English invaders. For centuries the object of British legislation for Ire- land was to secure and strengthen their hold upon the country and extend their irresponsible power and the vast Indian empire by a species of political petty larceny, which would bring a hillock of ants in- to disrepute, and a blush to the cheek of an Apachee ; and that, in the government of both, she has been England for Austria in the following extract, and see whether the outline of the picture is not fami- liar to your “mind’s eye :” EXPECTATION. Still swells the tide of battle, rank on rank, Croat and Frank over the land and the inhabitants thereof. For this object, parliament, the courts of law, and the civil and military force of the empire are all at their dis- posal. VVhole districts of the country were depopu- lated whenever it suited the pleasure of the land- lords. Some made their way to this Republic, some had influence enough to gain admission to the Poor House, and the grave took many. Evictions still continue, and still they come. The sea swallows up an odd cargo of four or five hundred, occasional- ly, but yet there are annually dumped upon this great cosmopolitan common, as much strength and courage, if properly ordered, as would be suflicient to free Ireland to-day. We Want emigration from Ireland to cease ; not that the people may still continue to dig and sow and reap for their task-masters at home ; not that they may be inducted into British arts of civilization and nineteenth century progress, which means buy- ing Manchester fabrics and Sheifield hardware ; not that they should remain bondsmen in that rich heri- tage which God gave to their forefathers, but that they may, some day soon, stand shoulder to shoulder with theif brothers, who are resolved to strike for that freedom so long expected, prayed and prophe- sied for, but so very, very long a-coming. The fact is, freedom will not come of itself. It is not a thing to be attracted by a speech ; it cannot be wooed by a song, however martial or melodious. She is stirred by the tread of armed men: she lifts her head at the sound of the battle charge ; her voice is heard in the ring of the patriot’s rifle, her refulgence is re- flected in the rebel’s pike. The short and the long of it is, that freedom, to be obtained, and when ob- tained, prized, must be fought for. There is no use in people idly waiting for the sky to fall that the green flag may be given to unlimited space: no use in Waitipg for that most desirable of all earthly con- siimmations, the bursting up and the breaking down of the British empire, of its own accord. If villainy, and perfidy, and persecution, practiced upon its un- fortunate subjects in every part of the globe, could have done the thing, there would have been an end ‘ of it long ago. As there is no chance of spontane- ous combustion, it must be effected by other means. No people, save those of India, has so deep an inte- rest in the destruction of British rule, as the Irish. They must cease enlisting in the" English army ; they must remain at--home and await the signal. When a war of liberation, is now raging in Europe, and England, at any moiggfnt, is liable to be swallowed up in its red vortex‘; when the Italians fly to the standard of Italy ; when Germans flock around the despotic banner of the Hapsburg, and Hungarians prepare to avenge and liberate Hungary, shall the green flag of Ireland have no followers, no host to lift and bear it to victory? Ireland’s heart is sound, her sons are true, nor have they all been unmindful of passing events. It will be no chill’s play, this more cruel, false, merciless and inhuman than any nation, civilized or savage under the sun? Is he not aware that there is no province, no colony, no dependency, and no nation under the protection, of England “that has not again and again attempted to shake off” her detested yoke and her equally detes- ted “protection.” Is there any country which her flag affronts and degrades where “the gibbet has not been glutted by the blood of patriots.” ‘Was he ignorant of this, so painfully patent to every one else ? In what dungeons on earth have “the good and the true inhaled more of the breath of pesti- lence and felony.” Was he, alone, in the dark in this respect? Has any struggling nation trusted her, that she did not betray; has any listened to her’ counsels, that she did not dupe ? Does he plead ignorance of this too? Is his memory so short? When Russia, in violation of all law and all jus- tice, swept desolation over Hungary with her clouds of Cossacks more pestilential than the locust plague,——the winged scourge of God,—-—did she inter- .pose even by a word ? Did she recognise by an ac- credited ambassador Hungary’s national existence ‘.7 “Happyhome !” England! the suborner of revolt and betrayer of the revolting even in his own coun- try, must he too pawn his name in the great false pretence office whence issue the tickets, accrediting her, as “the home of the free, and the sanctuary of the oppressed.” It may be possible to cheat one cursorily ac- quainted with her into the belief that she is “the happy home of the free.” But those who know her, know that while some are “happy and free,” five out of every six are born to waste muscle and bone and marrow, in order that the cup of luxury may sparkle the brighter for the other one ; that a great proportion of her manhood grow up ignorant, are unfrancliised, own no inheritance, and no right, but the right to work until they warp and wither, and then the right to die on charity garbage in “the house” and lie burried in a charity coffin ; that its womanhood pales over the midnight spindle, until girlhood is blighted into wrinkled age, with- out ever feeling one tlirob of joy, or ever seeing one glimpse of happiness, spinning, spinning, the cot- ton thread already long enough to encompass the world. “Happy home I” Yes no doubt; or at least it may seem so, to one living in the Regent’s park, and not by the docks; to one who visits west- end houses and not the “house” or the mill ; to one who sees the wares piled, pile on pile mountain high ; to one who rides in parks but never saw the “Angels Meadow at Manchester, where of the chil- dren_of the poor nineteen out of twenty never reach the age of five years. “Happy home !” But be it so ;——the gathering at the Freemasons tavern we have no doubt found it a happy home indeed. But “the sanctuary of the oppressed 1” did no one start at this announcement? For some it is a “ sanc- tuary,” for some it is a trap. There are, indeed, “ ‘There are commotions which owe their origin to maladminis- tration and misgovernment. These may be put to rest by sea- sonable concessions, improvements, reforms. But, my lord, ill- gover_ned_ as Italy is, with the exception of Piedmont, the Italian question is not of this character. The problem imperatively claiming its adequate solution in the Italian question is not such or another form of government, such or another abuse or griev- ance, demanding such or another improvement, concession, re- dress. No ; the Italian question is a question of nationality. And because it is aquestion of nationality, the first and foremost poin_t in its practical solution is, the totaland definite expulsion of Austria from Italy-—[cheers]—her expulsion in such a man- ner that she could not be able to go back. [Renewed cheers.] Many political questions may admit of compromise ; but this is one of those which can admit of no compromise. Either Aus- tria must be definitely ejected from Italy or else, do What the Powers of Europe may, the Italian question will recur again and again. No administrative reforms, no readjustment of pro- vincial frontiers, could conjure it, and no terrorism could stifle it. Nothing short of the utter extermination of the Italians could secure the rule of Austria in Italy ; and a nation of twenty-six millions baflles even extermination. Well wrote Lord Napier to Viscount Palmerston in 1848 : “The Italians may be crushed, but will not be extirpated. The enthusiasm of hope will kindle, and the broken thread will be knit again and again.” The same nature of the Italian question explains the fact that when, in 1848, from fear lest the French might enter Italy, Austria offered to the Provisional government of Milan the uncondi- tional independence of Lombardy. with faculty to dispose of themselves as they might please, the Milanese rejected the olfer, with the declaration that they would never separate themselves from their Venetian brethren, and that they would fight not for Lombardy, but for Italy.” Had the grater‘ when he finished his picture, with his group- ing of fiustrian crimes and Italian sufferings, yielding to the in- spiration of truth, and higher promptings than those of mere country, said to his exulting auditory, “the case I have pre- sented is your own. You are Ireland’s Austria, and Ireland is your Italy,” how suddenly the cheers would have been convert- ed into a hissing and a howling, and the arms so ready to cm- brr-ce the vindicator of liberty for Italy into the claws of foul carrion birds, ready to tear into shreds the vindicator of liberty for Ireland! ' And even though he had the courage to test the sincerity of his cheerers, so far, he would yet be infinitely short of a full ex- pression of the cruelties of England towards Ireland, and the sufferings of Ireland at her hands. In one thing, and one only, the analogy between Ireland and Lombardy is exact—they are both under a foreign domination. But there the analogy ends. Austriais usurpation in Lombardy is a mere military occupation. England’s usurpation in Ireland is a robbery of the soil, as well as the liberties of the people. Austria’s tyranny is purely poli- tical ; Eng1and’s tyranny is brought home to every hearthstone. Austria taxes the Italian nobles and landowners at her pleasure. England has taken care that an Irishman should have nothing to tax. Austria never enacted that the Italian language was a “felony ;” England so provided in regard to the Irish. Austria never made a law providing that an Italian schoolmaster should be ranked with thieves, and an Italian priest with wolves. These were standing provisions of English law in Ireland. At present no Austrian except by purchase, and even so, not one out of a hundred, owns a rood of Italian soil. Every rood of Ireland has been taken by England and so owned that every owner is a soldier of her garrison. In Lombardy there are two provinces, that of Milan and that of Come. The cultivators of the former are generally wealthy, holding large farms, averaging 200 acres and never disturbed, providing they pay a fair aver- age return. They are called Fitabili. !To them Austria is unknown by law or by taxes. Their landlords are Italian, and the farmers are generally the more independent of the two. In the province of Come, the same state of things exists, save that the land is hilly, and more valuable but requiring a great deal more of manual culture; and so the farms are on an average between ten and twenty acres. These farmers are called Mas- sai ; and, though not so wealthy as the others they are very com- fortable, live in a healthy climate, grow their own food—rice, swine, potatoes, fowl,——and are independent of the world. No insurrection acts are passed in Vienna forgthem. No cur- few law is there made for them. Austria never despatched Aus- Sweep sounding on, the banner and the plume Toss through the gloom. Even as the white waves when the tempest sweeps The lifted deeps, And the expectant nations gather round The battle ground. Each with the sword wi thin his read Grimly they stand, A moment more, and they may rush to sway The thickening fray. On the horizon like a thunder cloud, To burst and lighten in the flash of swords, The German hordes Hang as;the longing Vandal hung before, These val1ey’s o’er— Hung o’er the vineyards and the olive groves That still he loves. The savage Goth, amid his sunless plains, His bleak domains, And Russia, with her eagle pinions spread Black overhead, Broods, Waiting on the crimson field to stoop With sudden swoop. But England, like the tiger in the sedge, Crouched by the edge Of the warm Indian rivers, at whose brink The tired steeds drink, Waiteth, with deadly spring her strength to throvr On her spent foe. Yes, look thee to thy helmet and thy lance, Oh, fearless France! When in the hot, close conflict thou art pressed; Full on thy crest Shall ring his sudden stroke, shall sound his cry, Thine Enemy! But lo! without the lists another stands His unarmed hands Fitting to its rude shaft a shining spear, And drawing near, With his concentred passion, stern and pale, The watchful Gael. Dark, lithe, and sinewy, with a savage grace In his fierce face, He listens like the war-horse when he hears The clashing spears. And he invokes, now bending to the sod, The Righteous God! To free his children in this fiery hour, By His own power. Father Thou knowest! to thine ear alone, Had pierced each tone, Of our long agony, our patient pain- Shall it be vain ‘I That o’er the countless martyr’s of our faith, Blooms the wild heath, And the long grasses that the bleak winds toss, Round the rude Cross Sublime, sole trophy o’er each hunted head, Thy holy dead, ‘ They that have won through torture, brave and calm; The Martyr’s Palm. OISSIN N ’S EPITHALAMIUM. How many years have come and gone clearing Ireland of all the traces and villainy of British spoliation ; but it must be done at last ; so let us prepare for the worst, in time, lest it should be too late when the crisis shall have arrived. God and Louis Napoleon are about to deliver England over to her own trampled subjects, and let us, therefore, be ready to receive our share of the dismembered lion. Since we became, sweet darling, one! How many clouds have cast their shade Upon our life’s, then smiling, glade! How many sorrows nipped the flowers, That bloomed, for our first Wedded bowers! But what of all that’s come and gone Since we are yet, sweet darling, one! Love blossomed on the daisied hills Love murmured in the pebbled rills, Love melted from the holly screen In thrush’s song, and linnet green, The lark, careering far on high, Was pouring his, to listening sky, And from the groves of purple yew Love coeed in coo of the cuckoo, Save these, we wedding guests, had none When we became, sweet darling, one ! We’ve had our losses and our cares And seeds we’ve sown have grown up tares, We’ve had our time of sorest trial And borne together self denial, We’ve seen the hopes we cherished so Like shadows o’er the meadow go; But though like shadows they be gone We yet remain, sweet darling, one! The hearthstone you had hallowed long With happiest smile and blithest song, Now echoes to the stranger’s glee, Without one thought of you or me. The Woodbine bower and hawthorn shade, You used to love, may flower or fade; But what though bower and shade be gone, Since we are yet, sweet darling, one! We’ve lost our once delightful home, We have been tossed on ocean’s foam; By storms at sea, and stormier yet, The storms of life, have been beset. Our child of love, whose single ray So brightened all, is now but clay; But yet methinks it shines upon Our way, rejoiced, we yet are one. trian undertakers to seize on their vineyards and rice fields giving them a choice between hell and the pestlential swamp. But we tire of the comparison. We have instituted it not to decry Italy’s resistance. On the contrary we regard that resis- tance as holy. The Italians have high traditions, historic me- mories, the fairest of climes, all blighted by the presence of the stranger—provocation enough for any nation having a heart. The cradle of civilization, nursery of the arts, home of valor, beauty and glory! what bosom is it that does not throb to its inmost fibre at the prospect of her deliverance? N ot ours, cer- tainly. We hailed the first ring of battle in her cause as the matin chime of Freedom ; and our blood tingled when victory sat once more upon her iinmemorial hills. Nor is her liberty the less dear to us because her sons are of our race and her op- pressor is of the race of our tyrant. May her beauty never more be defiled; may her glory never more be tarnished; and oh may the sentiments that inspire her children fire the heart of Ireland tolimitate her heroic example. She is, besides, no party to the Freemasons Tavern perform- ance. She prays for no aid from a treacherous tyrant. She does not beg from England. She spurns her sympathy and de- fies her protection. CANTONING TROOPS. As it nay be useful to our people to know how troops on the march through a country are provided with lodgings in the rural disgricts, we copy the following from the correspondence of a French ofiicer: “ I do not know whether you are acquain- ted withlwhat they call cantoning troops. I will tell you a word about it,‘for the thing is very new to the French army, which, since the old wars, has never been. otherwise than encamped. Cantonment in country farms consists in this :—The soldiers arrive aid enter the farm yard. The commanding oflicer looks about him; barns, stables, sheds, either open or close, so long as they are roofed-—everything does. All the straw wanted for the men’s beds is taken from the farmers ; it is laid down in the _sheds, barns, or stables, and eveiy man arranges his bed. It is true that later orders are given totthe peasant for him to be_ paid for what is taken from him ; bit is it always done? It is impossible that in cantoning one hundred thousand men there should not be some poor fel- low injuied. It is true that the luckless peasant makes up for it by seliing dear his wines, eggs, poultry, fee. The first time that I saw possession thus taken, without ceremony, of a house or farm, when I saw the men pass each other ar_nifuls of straw, without troubling themselves about anything, it went to my heart. l:‘.ut what’s to‘be done? The soldiers must have beds, and realh, for health, cantonments are much better than tents.” When fellows have an abundance of roast beef or mutton-- however iudely cooked——a glass of Guiness’ porter, or _Bcamish & Crawf4rd’s, for that matter, and are fighting for the liberty of their native land, they could sleep soundly in a hay-yard. “oppressed,” who are convenient guests to Eng- land. They sound her praises. They execute her missions. They propagate her lies. They stamp the current coin of her pretences with the im- press of their name. They accept her sanctimonious- ness as sanctity, and her slaiiders of all creeds but her own, as freedom of conscience. But who knows better than Louis Kossuth how the “oppressed,” not found thus useful, are tracked? His tongue ought to cleave to his mouth sooner than utter the libel; for even he was the special object of her espionage. One of her detectives donned a cart- man’s smock, to remove his furniture with a view of stealing any document he might deem useful to his brother pimps in Downing street. KOSSUTH’S LONDON SPEECH. To say that the speech of the Hungarian leader was great, is scarcely doing it justice. As a com- position, considering the people to whom it was ad- dressed, and the interests at stake, it may be pro- nounced unrivalled. -There are parts of it to which we take exception ; sentiments, contained in it, which we feel compelled to condemn, and arguments addressed to selfishness, deserving to be character- ized as maladroit. But remembering that he was pleading for his country, and to a powerful, the’ not a magnanimons nation ; one feels a pang at being obliged to let a word of censure escape him. .If, on any pretence or by any amount of adulation he could dissuade her from taking part with the oppressors of Hungary ; it is painful to find fault. But, on the other hand, it is still more painful to see such a man (3 man, as far as eloquence is concerned, seemingly inspired,) stoop to adulate a nation guilty of every crime with which he charges Austria, twenty times blackened and twenty times repeat-ed. It is almost v’~j¢hpossible to suppose him ignorant of England’s true ' character and it is hard to say his flattery was wilful falsehood. Yet to this conclusion we must come, un- less we are prepared to believe, that a man of such vast and varied acquirements, and such wonderful and acute intelligence, could live in England for ten years, and not be aware that she is the most cruel, re- remorseless, truculent and vindictive tyrant on the face of the globe. Could he be ignorant that she ac- quired Ireland by jugglery amounting to blasphemy Why, it may be said, by his admirers, select Kossuth for this exposure; he who has suffered, dared and accomplished so much ? Why? VVe owe, and would gladly accord him every respect and deference ; but our obligations to the truth are more sacred, and we owe something to others who suffered and dared even as he did, and now, lie in their graves, the victims of that “sanctuary,” which he proclaims inviolate. Their blood yet cries to Heaven. Does he feel it his duty to silence it with his mocking “ sanctuary of the oppressed?” Let the Bandieras speak from their shrouds ; their judgment will weigh against that of even the Mag- yar in the eyes of Italy and the world. ‘Ah ! well does he know that while the oppressed “sits at Eng- land’s table, she has a spy behind his chair ready to twist his lightest word into a halter for his neck. But no more reproaches, how painful in this in- stance 1 “To turn with pleasure and with pride, to those portions of the speech in which we recognise imperishable truths, spoken of Italy, but applicable to Ireland—trutlis which sound to us as if they were the echo of vibrations long audible on our own heart. Reader substitute the words Ireland for Italy and We’ve had, too, times of joyousness, " When light or shade alike could bless; Affection needs, nor sun, nor flowers, And all that love could give was ours. Not more when fortune spoke us fair Than ’neath the frowns of toil and care, And we could smile, unsmilediupon, As long as we were, darling! one. And here, even in the stranger’s land, That greets us with a grudging hand; And watches us with anxious eye, We may the scoffs of fate defy. Let good or ill our path befal, Affection’s smiles can brighten all; And, flowers will spring, for us, from stone, If we but love and be but one! Oissmr.