is well known that to have lost one’s tail is considered by the Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be quite sufficient to keep any one not only from a government, but something much less, even though he could translate the rhymed “Sessions of Hariri,” and were versed, still retaining his tail, in the two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire.

No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would, instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery titled—­he will not call them great again—­would then be for him, and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers, would be for him, more especially if he would commence maligning the society whose colours he had once on his hat—­a society which, as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few Protestant institutions for which the Popish Church entertains any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects nothing which it does not fear.  The writer said that certain “rulers” would never forgive him for having been connected with that society; he went perhaps too far in saying “never.”  It is probable that they would take him into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his pen and his voice against that society; such a mark “of a better way of thinking” would perhaps induce them to give him a government, nearly as good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical fox at the intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to keep him from the pauper’s kennel), after he had promised to foam, bark, and snarl at corruption no more; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay, of superseding, the ancient creature in his government; but even were he as badly off as he is well off, he would do no such thing.  He would rather exist on crusts and water; he has often done so, and been happy; nay, he would rather starve than be a rogue—­for even the feeling of starvation is happiness compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue, provided he has any feeling at all.  What is the use of a mitre or knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles?  What is the use of a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has lost his tail?  Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of a fox who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes him, and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush.  Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue who has parted with his principles, or those which he professed—­for what?  We’ll suppose a government.  What’s the use of a government, if the next day after you have received it, you are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of every honest man sounding in your ears?