what is pleasant rather than what is true.  As for the joyous and lepid consul, he jokes upon neutral flags and frauds, jokes upon Irish rebels, jokes upon northern and western and southern foes, and gives himself no trouble upon any subject; nor is the mediocrity of the idolatrous deputy of the slightest use.  Dissolved in grins, he reads no memorials upon the state of Ireland, listens to no reports, asks no questions, and is the

    “Bourn from whom no traveller returns.”

The danger of an immediate insurrection is now, I believe, blown over.  You have so strong an army in Ireland, and the Irish are become so much more cunning from the last insurrection, that you may perhaps be tolerably secure just at present from that evil:  but are you secure from the efforts which the French may make to throw a body of troops into Ireland? and do you consider that event to be difficult and improbable?  From Brest Harbour to Cape St. Vincent, you have above three thousand miles of hostile sea coast, and twelve or fourteen harbours quite capable of containing a sufficient force for the powerful invasion of Ireland.  The nearest of these harbours is not two days’ sail from the southern coast of Ireland, with a fair leading wind; and the furthest not ten.  Five ships of the line, for so very short a passage, might carry five or six thousand troops with cannon and ammunition; and Ireland presents to their attack a southern coast of more than 500 miles, abounding in deep bays, admirable harbours, and disaffected inhabitants.  Your blockading ships may be forced to come home for provisions and repairs, or they may be blown off in a gale of wind and compelled to bear away for their own coast; and you will observe that the very same wind which locks you up in the British Channel, when you are got there, is evidently favourable for the invasion of Ireland.  And yet this is called Government, and the people huzza Mr. Perceval for continuing to expose his country day after day to such tremendous perils as these; cursing the men who would have given up a question in theology to have saved us from such a risk.  The British empire at this moment is in the state of a peach-blossom—­if the wind blows gently from one quarter, it survives; if furiously from the other, it perishes.  A stiff breeze may set in from the north, the Rochefort squadron will be taken, and the Minister will be the most holy of men:  if it comes from some other point, Ireland is gone; we curse ourselves as a set of monastic madmen, and call out for the unavailing satisfaction of Mr. Perceval’s head.  Such a state of political existence is scarcely credible:  it is the action of a mad young fool standing upon one foot, and peeping down the crater of Mount AEtna, not the conduct of a wise and sober people deciding upon their best and dearest interests:  and in the name, the much-injured name, of heaven, what is it all for that we expose ourselves to these dangers?  Is it that we may