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one of the chief representatives of modern fashion in the House of Lords. Formerly he was a whig; now he is a tory, or rather he is a bon cmivive, and belongs to the party which gives the best dinners and suppers. As the tories are distinguished for their sumptuous entertainments—therefore he is a tory. He ought not to have waited until he was ruined to have become a conservative. No matter! having eaten up his own property, he now helps others to do the same thing; he pays with his company and his gaiety. He has, in fact, a rich vein of humor; one might make a large volume of his witticisms. He is always sober at the House. It was his evil genius which inspired him on one occasion to grapple with O'Connell ; the contest was unequal; the agitator wields the most deadly repartee. Fashionable and witty as Lord Alvanley is, he will nevertheless retain, during his life, graved on his forehead, the title of bloated buffoon, inflicted on him by the rude adversary whom he so imprudently attacked.

This young man of a handsome form, gracious in his appearance, and of striking mien, going out of the House, is the Earl of Errol. He votes with the min istry, although he is almost a member of the royal family. He is, in fact, a son-in-law, sous-officiel, of William IV, having married one of the illegitimate daughters of his Majesty. I should be glad to show you his brother-in-law, the Earl of Munster, the illegitimate issue of the same illustrious parent; but he rarely attends the sittings of Parliament. High and profitable sinecures have been showered upon these noble Earls. You see that in this age of constitutional governments, calling themselves moral and economical, sovereigns still shower, after the manner of Louis XIV, wealth and honors on their bastards.

You would hardly ask the name of that old man, so withered by age, whose slender legs are pushed into those old fashioned boots, with his twisted queue leaping about on the shining and powdered collar of an old blue frock. You would say it was some old French emigrant, forgotten in 1914 by the Restoration, and left on this side of the water. Observe how he moves to and fro; it is his constant motion. The eighty years of the Earl of Westmoreland do not prevent his being the most stirring and active tory in the House. He has been a member of the cabinet; and occasionally, at distinct intervals, he will still raise his old voice in defence of his old cause. Immediately on the adjournment of the House, you may sec him mount an old horse, as lank as himself, and gallop off. It is perhaps a mere fancy, but it seems to me that on the day the old Earl and his horse fail to return, toryism will be no more. In spite of myself I am accustomed to embody in this old man, all that remains of energy and strength in that dying party. He looks like the last living and moving form in the midst of the inanimate skeletons of this aristocracy,so fast crumbling into dust.

If you have observed that other old man, so nimble and busy, with his spectacles thrown back on his forehead, and looking in every direction around him with his large fish-like eyes, you have remarked that he runs incessantly from bench to bench, finding something to whisper in every one's car; and have doubtless taken him for one of the ushers of the House, for he has on the same dress that they arc accustomed to wear—a

black French coat, and a wig-bag of black taffeta. That is Lord Shaftesbury, a descendant of the celebrated earl of that name, one of the first essayists in the English language; a writer whose works are distinguished equally for the classical character of their style, and the wit and spirit that characterize them. The merits of the present Earl of Shaftesbury are not of the same exalted species; he is an active and industrious man. When toryism was in power (for he is a strong lory) he managed to secure the profitable office of president of the committees, and in that situation he exhibited all the patient and practical intelligence which the office demanded. He is also one of the vice-speakers of the House, and occasionally he exhibits his little black person on the red woolsack; but as he is only allowed to figure in that situation in his ordinary, unimposing costume, the honor is a rare one; it is only in the last extremity that he enjoys it, when there is no other possible speaker. An English Chamber does not consider that it is presided over with sufficient dignity, or even legally, unless it be by a wig and gown.

Thanks to St. George, we are now beyond the crowd of tories, and have doubled the second angle of the bar; returning towards the throne, passing by the benches on the left, we find ourselves among the whigs, who will not delay very much our progress, for the ranks are not very close on this side. Alas! how many vacancies. A glance at some of these generous, solitary peers, and our tour will be ended: we shall then have finished our long voyage around the Chamber.

The Earl of Radnor is one of the small number of disinterested whigs, who advocate reform for itself, and not as a means of securing themselves a seat at the feast of power; he discharges his duties as a liberal peer, actively, conscientiously, and with that rectitude and firmness which you would anticipate from his erect, nervous, and inflexible bearing. He is not a very flowery speaker; but it is necessary to listen to him when he rises; he has the tone of hardy and vigorous honesty, which constrains the attention of an audience.

With more diffidence and timidity in his manner of speaking, the same virtues of sincere and free devotion to public liberty, distinguish the Marquis of Clanricarde. There is about this young nobleman a sort of mental grace, which veils the deformity of his features; his flat nose, sunken eyes, and cadaverous complexion, do not disgust you; you have never seen extreme ugliness so becoming; it is a death's head,smiling and perfectly agreeable. The Parisian world is sufficiently well acquainted with the Marquis of Clanricarde. Thanks to the caustic wit of his lady, the daughter of Canning, who amused herself the last year with so much cruelty, at the expense of its bourgioit, pedantic, and quasilegitimate aristocracy.

We are now entering the head quarters of the little army of whigs. In the rear is Lord Plunket, a member of the administration, though without a seat in the cabinet. Truly, Ireland, of which he is Chancellor, hs» more'tluin one cause of bitter complaint against her unnatural child. The ungrateful wretch! he betrayed his country to provide for himself and family; he preferred fortune to renown; and paid his own honor f* the honors with which he has clothed himself! Bflt Cobliotl and the patriot Irish have chastised him ruoVly enough. Ireland is like all other mothers; she opens her arms to all her misled children that are disposed to return to her bosom.

Then let there be full pardon for the wealthy old lawyer; let his faults be forgotten, since he recalls his honorable youth, and once more volunteers in the service of the holy cause. The assistance of such an intellect as that of Plunket is not to be despised; age has not obscured in the least the matchless clearness of his powerful reason; there is not a dark corner in the most obscure question that he does not exhibit as clear as noonday; and it is not only by this power of lucid argument that he is distinguished. Weak and good natured, and crippled by the gout, as he appears, forced, whenever he rises to speak, to support himself with one hand on his cane, he has that fierce and sturdy determination which enables him to throw in the face of toryism all its humiliating truths, and is never disconcerted by even the most violent interruptions: his irony wounds and overwhelms the more that it is always concealed under an air of the most country-like simplicity.

At the extremity of this bench, which touches that of the ministers, you have recognized Lord Brougham; he is the very living caricature of whom the printshops in the Strand have shown you so many portraits. Observe his long face, his long legs, his long arms, the whole incoherent mass of his person. The expression of his countenance has something ferocious about it; there is certainly in this brain a small grain of madness; his small piercing eyes sparkle from the bottom of their sockets; a convulsive motion opens and shuts incessantly his enormous mouth; you would be alarmed did not the good nature of that thick, cocked-up nose, reassure you.

Do not be alarmed that the learned lord starts and appears so violently agitated—he is on a gridiron; he is tortured, because others are speaking, and he is constrained to be silent. To speak is to do an injury to Lord Brougham.

But the speaker is now seated; Lord Brougham has leapt from his seat; he is on his feet; he Has regained the floor; he retains it, and will not easily part with it; he has declared that he has but two words to say; if you have any business to attend to, go about it; at the end of two hours you may return, you will find him in the midst of his argument. It is much to be regretted that long experience of the bar and the parliament have not moderated a mind of this temper. He has just uttered a most cutting sarcasm—observe how he dulls its effect by reiterating and expanding it. He has perfectly established the impregnable strength of an argument; he proceeds to overthrow it himself, that he may build up others upon its ruins; it is thus his indiscretion injures the best cause and deforms his ablest discourses. Like an imprudent aeronaut, he bursts his balloon and falls with it to the earth, in consequence of having filled it too full. We who ore hearers, like well enough to be convinced by an argument, or to smile at a piece of irony; but we can comprehend an allusion. We are mortified at having every thing explained so elaborately. The more you persist in it, the more weary we become. Your obstinacy in doubting our intelligence—wounds and vexes us.

This excess of pedantry is the principal defect in the oratory of Lord Brougham. He has been well called the school-master. I do not deny his extraordinary

gifts as a learned debater, always caustic and indefatigable; but these extravagant discourses are out of all proportion, above all in the House of Lords, which treats all questions in a summary way, and in some degree after the fashion of the drawing room. It is a great want of tact not to suit oneself to one's audience. The manner of Henry Brougham was much more suitable to the House of Commons, where discussions are more full, and where one is less prepared to come to an early conclusion; he still retains the lawyer. He has never been able to throw off the violent and comic gestures of the gown, storming and thundering, in reciting a date or a section of it law. Without doubt his harangues fatigue him as much as they do those who listen to him; he does not spare himself, bawling and gesticulating without any regard to his own person; he bends and twists himself like a posture master; he dances and leaps with his words; he perspires and grows heated, but he leaves the hearer cold; his is not the eloquence which inflames the blood.

I would censure Lord Brougham more severely as a writer than as a speaker; for Lord Brougham is also a writer, and a good deal too much of one. The melancholy activity which distinguishes him, pushes him on incessantly to fill the reviews with his economical, political, scientific, historical, and theological essays, and to heap up pamphlet on pamphlet; if his writings were characterized by a finished style or new ideas, the evil would not be half so great; there is, however, eternally the same excessive flood of words; and on paper, where they cannot evaporate, it becomes even more intolerable. Though on his own part it has not been an interested speculation, I cannot pardon him for having been the father of that leprous, cheap literature, which, pretending to diffuse useful knowledge, has only displayed false opinions, ignorance, and bad writing. In France, where this disastrous invention has been so quickly perfected, there is good cause to curse in all sincerity its author. It is not his fnultjiowevcr, that the French have permitted their worthless laborers to infect, as they have done, all their literary field, with these tares which threaten to choke the promising harvest of their young poetry.

Let us examine Lord Brougham as a politician. Here we find him still more imperfect. I acquit him of the charge of having offered his support to the conservatives, on the condition of their securing him his chancellorship; this is a calumny of his enemies. I wish he had never had any thing to do with toryism. It is not his fault however, that he has not again become a whig officer. It is said that it is the whigs who object to his joining their ministry, and who have refused him the seals. Experience has proved that he is less dangerous as an enemy than as a friend. He is neither tory nor whig; nor is he a radical; he is however at present among the radicals. He is of no party, if it be not his own, the party of Lord Brougham.

The case of Lord Brougham ought to afford a salutary example to M. Dupin, his friend. There are many curious analogies between these two celebrated lawyers; they resemble each other strikingly in their countenances, in their fortune, in their inconsistencies, and in their extravagancies. M. Dupin does not preside more soberly over the Chamber of Deputies, than Lord Brougham did over that of the Lords. He is also a

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Oh! if to die in life's young hours, Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers; While Hope still sours on tireless wing, Where skies are bright with changeless Spring; Ere Sorrow's tear has dimm'd the eye, That late with rapture's glance was swelling; Or Grief has sent the bursting sigh In silence to its lonely dwelling: Oh! if to part with this world only, Where all is cold, and bleak, and lonely— To welcome in those happier spheres, The loved and lost of parted years; If this give pain, or waken sadness, Oh! who can tell the more than madness Circling thro' life the hearts that bear The chains that wounded spirits wear— To live, and yet to feel thro' lifo The aching wish, the ceaseless strife— The yearnings of a bleeding breast, To sink within the grave to rest; To smile, when every smile must wear The hue and coldness of despair; To weep, or only strive in vain To waken tears, that ne'er again Shall cool the fever of that eye, Whose fountains are forever dry: When joys are gone, and hope has fled, And friends are changed, and love is dead, And we are doomed alone to wait, And struggle with a bitter fate— Left like some lone and towering rock, To brave the ocean's battling shock, 'Till broken by some mightier wave, That bears it to a lonely grave. My early years, how coldly bright The memory of their parted light Falls round the heart, whose cords are broken, Or, only strung to suffering's power, When struck in grief's o'erwhelming hour, G ivc back to sorrow's touch a token. My sire, alas! they say he died When in the flower of manhood's pride: I stood beside that parent's bier, And wondered why the big bright tear Was coursing down my mother's cheek; She took my hand, but could not speak— I kiss'd her then, and sadly smiled, Nor felt I was an orphan child. My Mother! how the thoughts of years, With all their smiles, and all their team

Rush with the memory of her name

Upon me—and I seem the same

Bright, careless child she looked upon,

And joyed to call her fair-haired son :—

Oh, I remember well the time

She led me to our favorite bower;

It was in Spring's sweet, sunny prime,

And just at sunset's dying hour,

When woods, and hills, and waters seem

Wrapt in some soft, mysterious dream—

When birds are still, and folded flowers

Their dark green lids are peering through,

Waiting the coming evening hours,

Within each bright cup to renew

The wasted wealth of morning dew—

When spirit voices seem to sigh

In every breeze that wanders by—

And thoughts grow hushed in that calm hour.

Beneath its soft, subduing power.

She knelt, and breathed to heaven a prayer,

"That God would guard that orphan there"—

Then turned, and with a faltering tone,

She took my hand within her own,

And said, " I ne'er should find another

To love me as she loved me then"—

And I could only Miy, " my Mother!"

And fall upon her neck again,

And bathe it with my burning tears—

The bleeding heart's most precious rain—

That I had boarded there for years,

And hoped to never shed again;

Nor know, alas! how soon the heart,

When all its early ties are parted,

Will link it to some kindred heart—

That wounded bird and broken-hearted

Are soonest won, and cling the longest

To those who seek their ruined wealth.


She died, and then, alas! I thought My cup of suffering was o'crfraught— No voice to cheer, when sorrow's power Assailed me in her darkest hour— No lip to smile, when hope was bright, No eye to glad me with its light— No heart to meet my throbbing heart— No prayer to lift my thoughts above, When murmuring tears were forced to start— No Father's care!—no Mother's love!

Ye, that have known in life's young spring,
The fondness of a Mother's love,
Oh guard it, 'tis an holy thing,
A priceless treasure from above!
And when, on life's tempestuous sea,
Thy shatter'd bark by storm is driven,
'Twill be a bencon-light to thee,
A guiding star, by memory given,
To lead thy wandering thoughts to Heaven.

The Spring renews the leafless tree,
And Time may check the bosom's grief—
And thus it wrought a change on me,
But oh! mine hour of Spring was brief.

They are who tell us, " love's a flower,

That only blooms in cloudless skies—

That gaily thrives in pleasure's bower,

But touched by sorrow, droops and dies."

Not so was ours! we never loved

Till suffering had our spirits proved,

And then there seemed a strange communion,

Sinking our souls in deathless union:

Such power hath love to render dear

The hearts that grief hath made so near,

That we had loved each other less,

Save for our very loneliness.

Her gentler spirit was not formed
To war with stern misfortune's storm,
And soon we felt, that day by day
She yielded to a slow decay,
Wearing unseen her life away.
And yet so sweet the smile that played
On lips that ne'er a sigh betrayed—
So calm the light that lingering slept
in eyes that ne'er for pain had wept,
We could not grieve, but only pray,
That when that light should pass away,
The faint, sad smile might linger yet,
And vainly teach us to forget.

She died! I know not when or where—
I never knew—for silent there
I stood, unconscious, strange and wild,
In all save thought and tears, a child;
For sorrow's channels then were sealed,
Or flowed too deep to be revealed.

I stood beside her grass-grown grave,
And saw the boughs above it wave;
And then I felt that I was changed—
That reason, late so far estranged,
Had won me from my spirit's madness,
To settled grief and silent sadness:
I placed bright flowers above her grave,
And nursed them with my warmest tears,
And for my grief a balm they gave,
The memory of departed years.

Ianthe! o'er thine early tomb
The Summer's winds are gently blowing,
And fair white flowers, the first to bloom,
Around thy narrow home are growing;
And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle,
Pit emblem of thy spirit's love!
And near it mourns the gentle turtle,
And I, how like to that lone dove!
While every leaf, and flower, and tree
is fraught with memory of thee.

And oh! if true, who tell us death
Can never quench its purer fires—
That not with life's last faltering breath,
The soul's immortal love expires;
If heart meets kindred heart above,
Shall we not greet each other there?
Say, was not ours a deathless love?
Too deep, too strong for life to bear!
Then let us hope to meet again,
Ere long, in guiltless transport there,

With bliss for all the grief and pain
We here on earth were doomed to share,
And love on, through unending years,
Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears.


Filled in from the PenciMngs of an English Artist.


Painting is welcome;—
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,
He is but ouuidc. These pencilled figures are
Even such as they give out.

Timon of Athens.


Chagres—The Castle—Mine Host—No English and no Spanish for two—Mule Riding—A Fit-out for Panama—Up in the World—The Stone Ladder—A Yarn.

It is now some weeks since I opened my note book, and I confess the cause to be pure idleness alone. However, my pencil meanwhile has not lain dormant, as my portfolio will convince you. After all, cut bono? Why should a fellow be expected to write a journal on shipboard? The record of one day upon a voyage is the record of all others. This day we see "a booby," (an animal not rare, you will say, on shore) the next, perhaps, a turtle, and on the next we may be amused with a short skirmish between a whale and a sword-fish, or a more deadly one between contending shoals of hostile sharks: then we see " Cape Fly-away," and after that we see nothing!

Our voyage to Chagres, instead of five days, was extended to fifteen. The pilots live on board, and make a point of lying out for a wind or a tide, until they have laid in sustenance enough to last them while another ship shall demand their services, and then convoy their patient victims into port. But we got in at last, and were thankful.

The scenery here is surpassingly lovely, rich beyond any description of which my pen or pencil is capable. I found great delight in being once more on land, after my tedious passage—for I profess, without a blush, to be a determined land-lubber, you are aware—and began to look about me with as much greenness as a country boy on his first visit to the Metropolis. With the exception of the old Gothic castles of my own country, that at Chagres is the finest I have ever seen. It occupies a great space of ground, and is remarkable for ita strong and massive walls, reaching to a great height, and commanding the whole town as well as the river and coast. The prospect from this castle's walls is full of the richest and most varied beauty.

Finding that our vessel was likely to be detained for some days at Chagres, I determined tocross the Isthmus, and visit Panama. Owing to the want of industry, or rather to the most consummate laziness, which is a characteristic of the natives, I was three whole days endedvoring to engage any one to carry me up the river. The consequence was that, the river, in the mean time, having risen prodigiously, I was four days and a half, including of course the four nights, on a route of about forty or fifty miles! During this lime I went on shore

Vol. 11—82

at night, sleeping on the ground with a billet of wood for my pillow, and disturbed in my slumbers by droves of pigs, which as they rooted up the soil around me, paid no sort of attention to my convenience. Occasionally a horse would browse down to my couch, and reach his long neck over me as I lay, to nibble a cornhusk or a yam on the other side of my pillow—and as to the cows, they were perpetually snuffing at me. I say nothing, though I felt much, of the musquitoes!

With what delight did I behold the landing place, which, after my rough journey, was pointed out to me by my conductor. They who are accustomed to travel in Europe and America, can have no idea of it. Here

I hastened to present my letters to Signor P , a

gentleman who was to be my host while I staid. Our conversation was rather limited, as you may readily conceive, when I mention that he could not speak a word of my language, nor I a syllable of his, which was Castillafu—(they never say 'Spanish' there.) But the language of actions is often more eloquent than that of words—at least so thought I, when my host ordered a comfortable repast to be placed before me, consisting of fricasseed fowl, and Vermicelli soup, with a magnum of generous claret. This was certainly a delightful exchange for my five days fast upon half boiled rice and plaintains, as were my soft pillow and quiet apartment a great improvement upon my nocturnal accommodations while on the route.

Early the next morning I found myself mounted on the back, or to be more exact, I should say something like a half mile aiore the back, of an animal which I had at first some difficulty in naming. In all my life, (albeit something of an equestrian, as you know,) I was never so put to it to take an advantage of my knowledge of horsemanship. Conceive me placed high above a tall raw-boned mule's back, (the saddle one of the old Saracenic or Moorish pattern, fastened by a multiplicity of strands, made of hairrope, to a ri ng tied to the sadd le by a single loop of leather,) and at the mercy of this single string to guide not one of the gentlest of beasts, reminding the reader of Peter Pindar of the ass, " with retrogtiding rump and wriggling tail," jumping alternately to each side of the street, and occasionally turn, ing round and kicking sidewise, like a cat in search of her tail, or a dog vainly attempting to rid himself of the addendum of a tin-kettle! What a merry figure I must have cut!

My mule was a picture in himself. I have already called him raw-boned,—and you may deduce his coup {Tail from this attribute. Add, however, the details of the beast, and you shall acknowledge that he was sui generis. His ears stuck straight out to the front, sure sign of wicked intentions, and the nose was curled into a thousand ill-natured wrinkles. The horse-cloth was made like a hearth-rug, heavy, matted, and thick, and on the top of that was placed a straw pad about four inches thick, to prevent the pressure of the saddle from hurting him. Surmounting this mountainous ridge was the saddle itself, and such a one! It was the real demipique of the middle ages, and was doubtless two hundred years old itself. The leather was originally a bright tan-color, but was now grown black and glossy by age and wear, and as hard as if made of iron. So hard was it that I turned the edge of my knife, in endeavoring to cut a strap which gave way during my ride. On this

pyramidal pinnacle, which I have described stone by stone, as it were, behold me sealed. The reins are handed me by the groom, who undertakes the whole guidance and direction of the process of mounting, as any departure from his regulations in this respect would result in the total overthrow of the whole mass upon which the rider is doomed to sit. Being mounted, I discovered that the stirrups were thrown over the saddle, and the strap connecting them tied in a knot, beside which was another, formed by the tying of the girth iu a similar manner; this last being improved by the strap of the crupper brought through a hole behind in the saddle and made fast to the pommel. All these knots (reminding me of Obadiah's in "Tristram Shandy,") stood up in front and rear, and as there was no pad above os there was below, to prevent the manifold injuries that were like to result to the rider upon such an establishment, you may judge of the consequences of riding a hard trotting mule, thus caparisoned, for twenty seven miles. I shall carry the scars I got, to my grave, if I survive to the age of Methusalem. The bridle was a rope of hair, as was the halter beneath, and the bit— oh ye gods! what a bit! It weighed at the very least ten pounds avoirdupois, and hung down full twelve inches below the jaws of the mule. Lo, there was I, in a coarse straw hat, and a queer cotton travelling toggery, with a pair of spurs, such as John of Gaunt might have used, being made of brass, with a shank six inches long, tied by a strap which first went round the foot, and then three or four times round the leg, each spike in the rowel being an inch and it half long, the whole forming a tout ensemble, worthy of the pencil of George Cruikshank or Horace VemcL As neither of them are at hand, take the accompanying sketch, rudely done to the life by my own pencil.

You will see by the foregoing description, the sort of animal and equipments with which Signor P favored me. I assure you it is not in the least caricatured, either as the figure or accompaniments are concerned. The pencilling will give you an idea of the sort of road upon which I travelled from Cmzes, the residence of my host, to Panama. About halfway on, I stood upon a hill overlooking two oceans at once. I saw on the one side the bay of Panama, and the Caribbean sea on the other. As I proceeded, I came to a spot, where, for several yards, the ascent is up a kind of stone ladder. It is in a narrow pass, where, between two banks ot twelve to eighteen feet in height, there is a continued face of black rock, worn so smooth by a constant run of water, as to afford the mules only the small holes made in the crevices by their predecessors, as the means of ascent. As they dragged themselves up in this manner by these rude steps, I could not but admire the sure footedness of the animals. While on the open ground, they are full of tricks, and are constantly trying to displace their rider, but so soon as they find themselves in a difficult pass like that I have described, they seem to say to themselves—"Come, come, no fooling now—let's be steady," and in a moment they are the steadiestand soberest of animals.

This pass is called the Governor's Fall, from this circumstance. A governor of the territory, in the times of the early Spaniards, was ascending it, on his way to Panama, when his mule, less sure footed than my own, fell backward with him, and killed him instantly. The

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