Skull and Skibbereen—Blarney and Lane Blackpool—here invited the male Barnum—the princess of humbugs—to "that beautiful city called Cork" to an abolition ovation!

  Uncle Tom's cabin! Father Pat's Hut!

  Uncle Tom well fed, well clothed, well housed, well doctored, and in many instances, well educated!

  Father Pat lying in a ditch, after being thrown out of his birth spot—raging in a spotted fever—without a drop of water to cool his burning tongue—without food, raiment or medicine—without sympathy or aid—save from his penniless peers—rotting away from existence?

  Uncle Tom decently coffined and interred!

  Father Pat thrown, like a piece of carrion, into the red earth, a shriveled remnant of skin hanging about his bones, without a shroud, a coffin, a sigh, or a tear—the hungry howling dog after and tearing him from the earth at night, and holding a carnival over his putrid body!

  Aye, inhabitants of Cork city, your white brothers lying upon your waysides, the steps of your hall doors, in your streets, covered with vermin, fever maniacs, with parched lips and cancerous stomachs, how dare you interfere with American institutions—institutions fostered, fed and supported by the cotton, rice and tobacco lords—selfish and knavish hypocrites that they are—of England!

  Aye, take Mrs. Barnum Stowe to Skibbereen and Skull. Show her the spot where the bones of your kindered lie bleaching—women and men, honester, better and purer than you—where the "mere Irish" have melted into the earth, "having been told, (according to the eminent and philanthropic Everett,) in the frightful language of political economy, that at the daily table which nature spreads for the human family, there is no cover laid for them in Ireland," and that "they have crossed the ocean to find occupation, shelter and bread on a foreign soil."

  Aye, take Uncle Tom;s historian to Father Pat's grave—that spot of red damnation—remind her of the blood hound banquet, the festering corpse, the howls of the famine stricken, the blasphemous cravings of the insane—and ask her should you intermeddle for the black while you have the white slaves by the millions, whose condition you have done nothing—you do nothing to alleviate!

  Father Pat starves in a hut not fit for an aristocratic hog. Give him a human dwelling.

  Poor Father Pat is without food; give him to eat from "the daily table which nature spreads."

  Father Pat is ignorant, unenlightened; educate him, and you will be blessed of God.

  Do this—perform these duties—contribute to free you own white slave—(called, by a mockery, a delusion and snare, a free man)—and then you may fete Mrs. Stowe, Lucy Stone or Abby Folsom, and sympathize with American bondsmen, whom you propagate by purchasing that cotton which they, and they only, can produce.

[Irish American.