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one of the chief representatives of modern fashion in | black French coat, and a wig-bag of black taffeta. That the House of Lords. Formerly he was a whig; now is Lord Shaftesbury, a descendant of the celebrated earl he is a tory, or rather he is a bon convive, and belongs of that name, one of the first essayists in the English to the party which gives the best dinners and suppers. language; a writer whose works are distinguished As the tories are distinguished for their sumptuous equally for the classical character of their style, and entertainments-therefore he is a tory. He ought not the wit and spirit that characterize them. The merits to have waited until he was ruined to have become a of the present Earl of Shaftesbury are not of the same conservative. No matter! having eaten up his own exalted species; he is an active and industrious man. property, he now helps others to do the same thing; When toryism was in power (for he is a strong tory) he pays with his company and his gaiety. He has, in he managed to secure the profitable office of president fact, a rich vein of humor; one might make a large of the committees, and in that situation he exhibited volume of his witticisms. He is always sober at the all the patient and practical intelligence which the office House. It was his evil genius which inspired him on demanded. He is also one of the vice-speakers of the one occasion to grapple with O'Connell; the contest House, and occasionally he exhibits his little black perwas unequal; the agitator wields the most deadly re- son on the red woolsack; but as he is only allowed to partee. Fashionable and witty as Lord Alvanley is, figure in that situation in his ordinary, unimposing coshe will nevertheless retain, during his life, graved on tume, the honor is a rare one; it is only in the last his forehead, the title of bloated buffoon, inflicted on him extremity that he enjoys it, when there is no other by the rude adversary whom he so imprudently at- possible speaker. An English Chamber does not contacked. sider 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 va

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 ministry, 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 ille-cancies. A glance at some of these generous, solitary gitimate 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 1814 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 see 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 ear; and have doubtless taken him for one of the ushers of the House, for he has on the same dress that they are accustomed to wear-a

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 ac quainted 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 bourgeois, 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, has more than 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 for the honors with which he has clothed himself! But Cobbett and the patriot Irish have chastised him rudely enough. Ireland is like all other mothers; she opens

her arms to all her misled children that are disposed to gifts as a learned debater, always caustic and indefatireturn 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 æronaut, he bursts his balloon and falls with it to the earth, in consequence of having filled it too full. We who are 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

gable; 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 a 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 fault however, 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

lawyer who fills the speaker's chair, and speaks himself | much more willingly than he accords the permission to another. I grant you that his eloquence is of better metal, more powerful, more solid, more triumphant ; that his blows are heavier and more mortal; but should he ever succeed in reaching the power after which he aspires, I doubt if his temperament will allow him to sustain himself half the time that the petulance of our ci-devant chancellor remained seated on the woolsack.

IANTHE.

BY MORNA.

Oh! if to die in life's young hours,
Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers;
While Hope still soars 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' life
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,
Give 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 tears,

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 say, "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 hoarded there for years,
And hoped to never shed again;
Nor knew, 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'erfraught— No voice to cheer, when sorrow's power Assailed me in her darkest hourNo lip to smile, when hope was bright, No eye to glad me with its lightNo heart to meet my throbbing heartNo prayer to lift my thoughts above, When murmuring tears were forced to startNo 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 beacon-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 whereI 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 changedThat 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,
Fit 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 firesThat 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,

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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, cui 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 66 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 its 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, 1 determined to cross 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 endeavoring 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 time I went on shore, VOL. II-82

at night, sleeping on the ground with a billet of wood pyramidal pinnacle, which I have described stone by for my pillow, and disturbed in my slumbers by droves stone, as it were, behold me seated. The reins are of pigs, which as they rooted up the soil around me, handed me by the groom, who undertakes the whole paid no sort of attention to my convenience. Occa- guidance and direction of the process of mounting, as sionally a horse would browse down to my couch, and any departure from his regulations in this respect would reach his long neck over me as I lay, to nibble a corn- result in the total overthrow of the whole mass upon husk or a yam on the other side of my pillow-and as which the rider is doomed to sit. Being mounted, Į to the cows, they were perpetually snuffing at me. I discovered that the stirrups were thrown over the saddle, say nothing, though I felt much, of the musquitoes! and the strap connecting them tied in a knot, beside With what delight did I behold the landing place, which was another, formed by the tying of the girth in which, after my rough journey, was pointed out to me a similar manner; this last being improved by the strap by my conductor. They who are accustomed to travel of the crupper brought through a hole behind in the in Europe and America, can have no idea of it. Here saddle and made fast to the pommel. All these knots I hastened to present my letters to Signor P―, a (reminding me of Obadiah's in “Tristram Shandy,") gentleman who was to be my host while I staid. Our stood up in front and rear, and as there was no pad conversation was rather limited, as you may readily above as there was below, to prevent the manifold inconceive, when I mention that he could not speak a juries that were like to result to the rider upon such an word of my language, nor I a syllable of his, which was establishment, you may judge of the consequences of Castillaña (they never say 'Spanish' there.) But the riding a hard trotting mule, thus caparisoned, for twenty language of actions is often more eloquent than that of seven miles. I shall carry the scars I got, to my grave, words at least so thought I, when my host ordered a if I survive to the age of Methusalem. The bridle was comfortable repast to be placed before me, consisting of a rope of hair, as was the halter beneath, and the bitfricasseed fowl, and Vermicelli soup, with a magnum oh ye gods! what a bit! It weighed at the very least of generous claret. This was certainly a delightful ex- ten pounds avoirdupois, and hung down full twelve change for my five days fast upon half boiled rice and inches below the jaws of the mule. Lo, there was I, plaintains, as were my soft pillow and quiet apartment in a coarse straw hat, and a queer cotton travelling a great improvement upon my nocturnal accommoda- toggery, with a pair of spurs, such as John of Gaunt tions while on the route. 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 a half long, the whole forming a tout ensemble, worthy of the pencil of George Cruikshank or Horace Vernet. As neither of them are at hand, take the accompanying sketch, rudely done to the life by my own pencil.

Early the next morning I found myself mounted on the back, or to be more exact, I should say something like a half mile above 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 hair rope, to a ring tied to the saddle 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 retrogading 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!

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 Cruzes, the residence of my host, to Panama. About half way 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 of My mule was a picture in himself. I have already twelve to eighteen feet in height, there is a continued called him raw-boned,—and you may deduce his coup face of black rock, worn so smooth by a constant run d'œil from this attribute. Add, however, the details of of water, as to afford the mules only the small holes the beast, and you shall acknowledge that he was sui | made in the crevices by their predecessors, as the means generis. His ears stuck straight out to the front, sure of ascent. As they dragged themselves up in this mansign of wicked intentions, and the nose was curled into ner by these rude steps, I could not but admire the sure a thousand ill-natured wrinkles. The horse-cloth was footedness of the animals. While on the open ground, made like a hearth-rug, heavy, matted, and thick, and they are full of tricks, and are constantly trying to dison the top of that was placed a straw pad about four place their rider, but so soon as they find themselves in inches thick, to prevent the pressure of the saddle from a difficult pass like that I have described, they seem to hurting him. Surmounting this mountainous ridge was say to themselves-"Come, come, no fooling now-let's the saddle itself, and such a one! It was the real demi-be steady," and in a moment they are the steadiest and pique of the middle ages, and was doubtless two hundred soberest of animals. 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

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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