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Blast himself-seeing that he had dogged his prey from St. James'-square? "Ha! my good friend," cried Blast, very much moved, you don't know the trouble I've had since we met. But you must see it in my looks. Tell me, aint I twenty years older?"

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"Look here," cried Blast, taking off his hat and rumpling up his hair: "there's a change! "I don't see it," muttered St. Giles; though, Once as black as a crow; and now-oh, my dear assuredly, such a sight would have carried its | friend"—St. Giles shrunk at the appeal as at a pleasure to the runaway transport.

"Ha! you won't see it; that's so like a friend. But don't let us stand in the street; come in and have a pot; for I've somethin' to say that'll set your art a bleeding." Hoping, praying, that Crossbone might not observe him-and feeling dwarfed, powerless, under the will of Blast-St. Giles turned into a side-room with his early teacher and destroyer.

"I don't feel as if I could do anything much in the way of drink," said Blast, to the waiter following, "and so, a little brandy-and-water. Well, you wonder to see me at Hampstead, I dare say? You can't guess what brings me here?"

"No," said St. Giles. "How should I?" "I'm a altered man. I came here all this way for nothin' else but to see the sun a settin'. Your health;" and Blast, as he said, did nothing in the way of drink: for he gulped his brandy-and-water. "To see the sun a setting!" cried St. Giles; we fear, too, a little incredulously.

"Ha! you 're young, and likes to see him a gettin' up; it's natrul; but when you're my time o' life, and have stood the wear and tear o the world as I have, you'll rather look at the sun when he sets, then. And, do you know why? You don't? I'll tell you. Acause, when he sets, he reminds you of where you 're agoing. I never thought I should ha' been pulled up in the way I have been. But trouble's done it. My only comfort's now to look at the settin' sun-and he sets nowhere so stylishly as here at Hampstead.' "Humph! And so you 've had trouble?" said St. Giles, coldly.

"Don't talk in that chilly way, as if your words was hailstones. I feel as if I could fall on your neck, and cry like a 'oman. Don't freeze me in that manner. I said trouble. Loss o' property, and death."

presented pistol-"if you want to put silver on a man's head, you've only to take all the gold out of his pocket. Had a loss! You may say a loss. I tell you what it is it's no use for a man to think of being honest in this world: it is n't. I've tried, and I give it up."

"That's a pity," said St. Giles: knowing not what to say-knowing not how to shake off his

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Why, it is; for a man does n't often make his mind up to it. Well, I've had my faults, I know; who has n't? Still, I did think to reform when I got that lump of money; and more, I did think to make a man of you. I'd chalked out the prettiest, innocentest life for both on us. I'll make a sojer of Jingo, I thought; yes, I'll buy him some colors for the army, and make him a gen❜lman at once. And then I thought we would so enjoy ourselves! We'd ha' gone and been one all among the lower orders. In summer time we'd ha' played at knock 'ems down with 'em, jest to show we was all made o' the same stuff; and in winter we would n't ha' turned up our noses at hot-cockles, or blind-man's buff, or nothin' of the sort; but ha' been as free and comfortable with the swinish multitude (for I did begin to think 'em that when I got the money) as if they'd got gold rings in their noses, and like the pig-faced lady, eat out of a silver trough. I thought you 'd be a stick to my old age. But what 's the use o' thinking on it? As my schoolmaster used to say'Him as sets his heart on the things of this life'I've forgot the rest: but it's all of a piece."

"And how did you get this money?" asked St. Giles, with very well-acted innocence.

"How did I get the money? How should I get it? By the sweat of my brow." And so far, the reader who remembers the labor of Blast in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit him of an untruth.

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"And having got such a heap of gold," rejoined St. Giles, pray tell me how did you lose it?"

"Death!" cried St. Giles. "Little Jingo. That apple o' both my eyes; that tulup of a child. Well, he was too clever to live long. I always thought it. Much too for'ard for his age. He's gone. And now he's gone, Now Blast had, and never suspected it, a sense I do feel that I was his father." St. Giles stifled of humor: he could really enjoy a joke when least a rising groan. "But-it's my only comfort-palatable to most men; namely, when made he's better looked arter now than with me." against themselves. Nevertheless, with people "No doubt," said St. Giles with a quickness who have only a proper pride of such philosophy, that made Blast stare. "I mean, if he is where he had his share of sensitiveness, to be called up you hope he is.” at a reasonable crisis. Hence, when St. Giles "I should like to pay him some respect. I don't pressed him to explain his loss, the jest became a want to do much but-I know it's a weakness; hurt. Good nature may endure a tickling with a still a man without a weakness has no right to feather, but resents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. live among men; he's too good for this sinful" My dear young friend," said Blast, “don't do world. As I was saying, I know it's a weak- that; pray don't. When you 're as old as me, ness still, I should like to wear a little bit o' and find the world a slippin' from under you like a black-if it was only a rag, so it was black. You hill o' sand, you'll not laugh at the losses o' gray could n't lend me nothing, could you? Only a hairs," and again Blast drew his fingers through coat would be something to begin with."

St. Giles pleaded in excuse his very limited wardrobe; and Blast was suddenly satisfied.

"Well, he's gone; and if I was to go as black as a nigger, he would n't rest the better for 't. Besides, the settin' sun tells me we shan't be long apart. Nothing like sunsets to pull a man up;

his locks meekly, mournfully. "How did I lose it? No: you warn't at Liquorish, you warn't? No; you don't know? Well, I hope I'm not much worse than my neighbors; and I don't like wishing bad wishes, it is sich old woman's work; it's only barking the louder for wanting teeth. But this I will wish; if a clergyman o' the 'Stab

lished Church is ever to choke himself with a fishbone, I do hope that that clergyman does n't live far from Lazarus, and that his name begins with a G. I'm not a spiteful man; and so I won't wish anything more plain than that. But it is hard" and again Blast, he could not help it, recurred to his loss-" it is hard, when I'd resolved to live in peace with all the world, to give a little money to the poor, and as we all must die-when I did die, to have sich a clean, respectable moniment put up to me inside the church, with a naked boy in white stone holding one hand to his eyes, and the other putting out his link-you 've seen the sort o' thing I dare say it is hard to be done out of it after all. It's enough to make a man, as I say, think o' nothin' but the setting sun. Howsomever, it serves me right. I ought to ha' know'd that sich a fine place must ha' belonged to the clergyman. If I'd hid the box in a ditch, and not in a parson's fish-pond, at this blessed moment you and I might ha' been happy men; lords for life; and, what I've heard, called useful members of society. And now, mate," asked Blast with sudden warmth -"how do you like your place? Is it the thing -is it clover?"

What place?" asked St. Giles. "I'm in no place, certain, as yet."

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There, then, we won't say nothin' about it. Only this. When you 're butler-if I'm spared in this wicked world so long-you won't refuse an old friend, Jingo's friend, Jingo's mother's friend" -St. Giles turned sick at his mother's name, so spoken-" you won't refuse him a bottle o' the best in the pantry? You won't, will you? eh ?"

"No," stammered St. Giles. "Why should I? Certainly not, when I'm butler."

"And till then, old fellow,"-and Blast bent forward in his chair, and touched St. Giles' knee with his finger-"lend us a guinea."

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St. Giles recoiled from the request; the more so, as it was seconded by contact with the petitionHe made no answer; but his face looked blank as blank paper: not a mark was in it to serve as hieroglyph for a farthing. Blast could read faces better than books. "You won't then? Not so much as a guinea to the friend of Jingo's mother?" St. Giles writhed again at the words. "Well, as it's like the world, why should quarrel? Now jest see the difference. See the money I'd ha' given you, if misfortin had n't stept in. He's a fine fellow,' I kept continually say ing to myself; I don't know how it is, I like him, and he shall have half. Not a mite less than half.' And now, you won't lend me-for mind I don't ax it as a gift-you won't lend me a guinea."

"I can't," said St. Giles. "I am poor myself: very poor.'

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"Well, as I said afore, we won't quarrel. And so, you shall have a guinea of me." Saying this, Blast with a cautious look towards the door, drew a long leathern purse from his pocket. St. Giles suddenly felt as though a party to the robbery that he knew it-Blast must somewhere have perpetrated.

Not a farthing," said St. Giles, as Blast dipped his finger and thumb in the purse. "Not a farthing."

"Don't say that; don't be proud, for you don't

know in this world what you may want. I dare say the poor cretur up stairs was proud enough this mornin'; and what is he now?"

"Not dead!" cried St. Giles. "I hope not dead."

"Why, hope's very well; and then it's so very cheap. But there's no doubt he's gone; and as he's gone, what, I should like to know"and Blast threw the purse airily up and down"what was the use of this to him?"

"Good God! You haven't stole it?" exclaimed St. Giles, leaping to his feet.

"Hush!" cried Blast," don't make sich a noise as that with a dead body in the house. The worst o' folks treat the dead with respect. Else people who 're never thought of at all when in the world, would n't be gone into black for when they go out of it. I'd no thought of the matter, when I run to help the poor cretur: but somehow, going up stairs, one of his coat pockets did knock at my knuckles so, that I don't know how it was, when I'd laid him comfortable on the bed, and was coming down agin, I found this sort o' thing in my pocket. Poor fellow! he 'll never miss it. Well, you won't have a guinea then?"

"I'd starve first," exclaimed St. Giles.

"My good lad, it is n't for me to try to put myself over your head-but this I must say; when you've seen the world as I have, you'll know better." At this moment, the waiter entered the room.

"How is the poor gentleman up stairs?" asked St. Giles. "Is there no hope?"

"Lor bless you, yes! They've bled him and made him quite comfortable. He 's ordered some rump-steaks and onions, and says he'll make a night of it." Thus spoke the waiter.

"Do you hear that?" asked St. Giles of Blast.

"Sorry to hear it: sorry to think that any man arter sich an escape, should think o' nothing better than supper. My man, what 's to pay?" St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. "No; not a farden; tell you, I won't hear of it. Not a farden; bring the change out o' that," and Blast laid down a dollar; and the waiter departed on his errand.

"I tell you, I don't want you to treat me; and I won't have it," said St. Giles.

"My good young man, a proper pride's a proper thing; and I don't like to see nobody without it. But pride atween friends I hate. So good bye, for the present. I'll take my change at the bar." And Mr. Blast was about to hurry himself from the room.

"Stay," said St. Giles; "should I wish to see you, where are you to be found?" "Some

"Well, I don't know," said Blast. times in one place-sometimes in another. But one thing, my dear lad, is quite sure." Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles' shoulders and looked in his face with smiling malignity"one thing is quite sure: if you don't know how to find me, I shall always know where to come upon you. Don't be afeard of that, young

man."

And with this, Blast left the room, whilst St. Giles sank in his chair, weary and sick at heart. He was in the villain's power, and seemed to exist only by his sufferance.

est.

DROMIO PUBLICATIONS.

THE withering ridicule bestowed by Horace upon literary imitators in his one emphatic appellative, "servile herd," has been repeated times without number, and the veriest tyro is now aware that theirs is, of all the sins of composition, the greatBut since Horace's time, an entirely new kind of literary imitation has come upon the field, one in which publishers are primarily, and in general authors only secondarily, concerned. It consists in the presentment of works in direct imitation of others which, whether from their originality and merit, or from their aptly subserving some public need, have met with success. The writings of Swift and Pope tell us of a branch of "the trade" devoted to this business early in the last century, with Edward Curl for its most eminent professor. But it has, in our time, reached a magnitude, compared with which its early history is as mewling infancy to a Hercules' manhood. It is now absolutely impossible for the slightest originality to be shown in any of the forms of paper and print, but it is immediately run upon by scores of the bibliopolic pecus, and tossed and gored into a thousand deformations.

To achieve an end with that unfortunate polypoid animal, the public, is of course the real intention of these breaches of the fifth commandment. The public, to do it justice, means well and dreams not of evil. But this just the more lays it open to be practised upon by the fraternity of imitators. The public wishes to be shaved; it has heard of a clever artist in that line near the Blue Posts; it seeks the shop according to a description it has got, and blunders into one of four exactly imitative barbers' tabernacles which have been got up by the side of the meritorious original. The public has heard of an amazingly clever cork-screw, which whips corks out of bottles as it were by magic, and it goes to provide itself with the admirable instrument: it does not get the genuine screw, but one made by a man with a similar name, and who, being a numskull, gives his wares only an appearance, but not the reality, of their pretended virtues. Again, the public is anxious to get a certain pill, in which it has been taught, from its youth up, to place reliance: it sends for a three-shillings-andsixpence box, and is supplied with a base imitation, loudly proclaiming on its cover, "Be sure to ask for the true-blue antibilious pill, prepared by -." Thus is the public imposed upon in There is a vast number of grades in this imita- literature also. To every favorite work which it tive power-altogether apart, it must be under- may desire, it has to make its way through an enstood, from respectable efforts in the line of fair tangling brushwood of similative works, all pretendcompetition-from him who can get up a similative ing to be the true work in the first place; and in novel or periodical, down to the poor serf who the second, if the first trick fail, to be better. Every limits his efforts to the counterfeiting of a clever now and then its attention is attracted by a probook-cover. It is, however, all one thing in its spectus which will not be overlooked; for go ultimate character-an effort to come in for a share where the public will, there is the portentous anof the benefits which some wits of a happier kind nouncement. Well, the public reads the advertiseare supposed to derive from their originality. One ment, and (we shall suppose the thing referred to cannot but be somewhat amused in contemplating is a newspaper) not being behind the scenes in the proceedings of these dullards. Their private ra- such matters, it yields a kind of credence to the tiocinations are of course simple enough: "There tale which it is told-as to interests of its own to are Smart and Spritely-understood to make a be advanced, and so forth. It purchases; it reads; capital thing by that magazine of theirs; can't we half-recollecting all the time that there were very get up something of the same kind, and take a tolerable publications of that kind before, even to share of their profits?" Here is the real principle the minutest specialty of character; rather hazy, of action; but of course the public must be told however, about the fact; always looking for the something else. A prospectus accordingly de-out come of the great promise-when is the fun to plores the absence of a certain desirable character begin? Why, after all, the old work was just as in all existing periodicals. They are too utilitarian, good, or rather better. What is the meaning of and do not address themselves sufficiently to the all this? Only, dear public, that a certain worthy feelings; or perhaps they are too sentimental, and person, who could not start an idea of his own, got do not condescend sufficiently to the affairs of com-up behind another man's idea, and tried all he mon life. Anything will do that may serve to could to oust him from the possession of his own mask the real object-that of draining away a por- vehicle. There is nothing else in the whole tion of the patronage bestowed upon Smart and matter. But only thou, silly public that thou art, Spritely. Sometimes even a tone of censure is couldst never see it.

assumed towards the parent works. They are It is melancholy, too, this desperate struggle to misleading guides: much need has the poor pub-get bread reft from each other's mouths. It is not lic to be rescued from them. Here is the pure all slavish meanness of soul. Often there is ingeand clean tuber at last! An instance could actually be shown of this kind of swagger being assumed, where the extreme meanness had been descended to of stealing part of the name, as well as imitating the form, of the work rivalled. What an odd idea-pretending to a superior virtue over the publication for which it was willing to be mistaken! But such is the nature of the herd in general. Capable of the sneakery of a direct imitation, they seem to be capable of any inconsistency in working it out. Hence all the progeny of successful works are more or less parricidal in their tone. The parent is astonished to find twenty images of himself putting on a hostile frown against him, and that faults and failings in his character, which the world never could see, are at length detected and exposed by his own children.

nuity of no inconsiderable amount expended in getting up a passable imitative work. Often wonderful sacrifices of capital and labor are made to thrust the secondary work into the saddle of its primary. It was lately stated that an imitative weekly newspaper had caused an outlay of twenty thousand pounds, the return of which was one of the remotest of contingencies. What heroisms these are in their way!-perverted, misapplied, yet still heroisms-elements in what might, associated with purer elements than acquisitiveness for self and partners, constitute great characters. One could almost weep over human nature thrown into positions so wretchedly false, and the redemption from which seems, for the present at least, so hopeless. - Chambers.

THE CAGED LARK.

From Fraser's Magazine.

THE CAGED LARK.

HOUR by hour the dreary day
Slowly, sadly wore away;
Heavy drops of ceaseless rain
Beating 'gainst the window-pane ;
Bitter winds with gusty sound
Mournfully were wailing round,
Till at last the outward gloom
Seemed to fill my quiet room,
And I looked with tearful eyes
Upward to the weeping skies.
Now and then a few quick feet
Passed along the village street,
Now and then a child's shrill cry
Mingled with the wind's deep sigh.
Many a thought of other days-
Fairer scenes and brighter Mays-
Filled my discontented heart :
I, who oft had taken part
In the gladness of the spring;
I, whose joy it was to sing
Of the earth's awakening
From her ice-bound wintry sleep,
Now could only pine and weep,
For my soul grew faint and dull,
Longing for the beautiful.

"Spring was wont of old," I said,
"Blessings on my path to shed.
Once her skies were all serene,
All her fields of richest green,
All her flowers of loveliest sheen.
Then the hidden cuckoo sang,
Till the leafy greenwood rang
With his lay, and thousands more
Sounding till the day was o'er;
Nor were even hushed at night
Songs and echoes of delight.
Then, where'er my feet might tread,
Starlike flowers were gaily spread :
Studded were the banks and fields
With the primrose' yellow shields,
Cowslip-bells and violets small
Blossomed ere the grass was tall,
And the murmur of the bee
Ever rose unceasingly,

Where the scented furze unrolled
Banners fair of green and gold.
Then the bright-winged butterfly,
Like a dream of joy, flew by,
Or awhile in quiet hung
Where the tufted harebells swung.
All of old was bright and glad,-
Now, alas! how changed and sad!
Now the skies are cold and grey,
And throughout the live-long day,
Prisoned in my room, I hear
Not a sound of joyous cheer-
Nothing but the ceaseless rain
Beating 'gainst the window-pane,
And the wind, with hollow tone,
Round my dwellng making moan.
Few and pale the leaves I see
Budding on yon chestnut-tree.
Here and there, within the bound
Of my plot of garden-ground,
Some stray flower of fairest dye
Half unveils its timid eye,
Till the storm-blast, rushing by,
Blights its charms, but half-revealed,
And its early doom is sealed.

Spring-time-season sad and drear,
Once the gayest of the year,
I am altered e'en as thou!
Pain hath left upon my brow
Shadows that may ne'er depart;
Care hath brooded at my heart,
Till I feel I cannot be
E'er again in spirit free.
Now I have no spells to raise

Thoughts that cheer'd my brighter days;
Other visions life hath brought,

Sadder lore than once I sought."

Thus, in lonely hour, I said,
Half believing joy had fled,
And my own bright hopes were dead.
Suddenly, while still I spoke,
Blithest music near me woke,
Piercing through the gloomy air,
Like a voice of praise and prayer.
Though the wind blew loud and shrill,
Yet it had not power to chill
Gladness such as filled that strain ;
And the shower beat in vain
Round the prison, where had birth
Those rich sounds of dauntless mirth.
Well I knew the strains I heard
Came from an imprisoned bird,
One whose nature was to cleave
Freest air from morn till eve,
Prone to greet with fearless wing
Sunshine and the breath of spring.
Yet, though men had done him wrong,
Still arose his cheerful song;
Still, although the clouds were dark,
Wildly sang that captive lark.
Quickly faded the distress

Of mine hours of loneliness:
Near me seemed to pass once more
Lovely things I'd seen of yore;
Sense of all the love and joy
Time and change could ne'er destroy.
Thoughts of eyes whose loving light
Still could make my dwelling bright,
O'er my spirit rushed again,
At the bidding of that strain:
And my humbled head I bent,
Heedful of the lesson sent
To rebuke my discontent.

Brightly falls the sunshine now
On each blossom-laden bough.
Every moss-grown apple-tree
Is a lovely sight to see,
With its bloom in clusters fair
Opening to the sunny air.
Breezes, stealing round about,
Shake the hidden fragrance out,
Flinging on the ground below
Frequent showers of mimic snow.
Gleams of purest white are seen
'Mid the chestnut's tufts of green;
Pyramids of pearly flowers
Peeping from their thick-leaved bowers.
'Mong the boughs light breezes pass,
And the shadows on the grass
Move the while like living things;
Many a pendent blossom swings
From a lofty sycamore,
And along the turfy floor
Thick the lowly daisies beam;
King-cups shed a golden glean
O'er the meadows near the stream.
Proud, and beautiful, and strong

Still the river sweeps along.
Here and there a pleasant shade
Elm or hawthorn-bough hath made,
Or the willow's streamers gay
Throw their shadow on its way:
Beauty more than gloom they shed
O'er the river's sunlit bed.
Swallows in their merry flight

Haunt the stream from morn till night.
Gracefully as fairy boat

On a magic lake might float,
Now and then a milk-white swan

In his stately joy moves on.

Yet though spring's rich beauty glow
As it did long years ago,
I am but a captive still
With an oft-impatient will:
But whene'er my heart is fain,
In its weakness to complain,
Hark! for once again I hear
Blithest music, rising clear
From that other captive near.
Little of the sky he sees,
Little of the flowers and trees;
Little he was used to rove,
Houses round him and above!
Yet upon the sod he stands
(Laid, perchance, by kindly hands
On his prison-floor) and sings,
E'en as if his folded wings
Still were free to range at will
Higher than the highest hill.
And again my heart will heed
This sweet lesson in its need;
And in other's bliss rejoice,
Bidden by that captive's voice.
May, 1845.

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lurked there; and now we have them out, converting old obstructors into most efficient auxiliaries in the progress of opinion.

In

To the worst class of personalities the protectionists stuck with a pertinacity that would have been amusing if it had not been repulsive. Sir Robert Peel and his misdeeds were the main object of their diatribes; but the League came in for a share, with the imputation of all sorts of bad motives and evil designs. The Duke of Richmond abandoned himself as thoroughly as any speaker to vituperation; and, with more or less coarseness or delicacy, all who followed on his side made the question hinge on the personal part of the affair. Even the venerable and diplomatic Lord Ashburton, though statistical, was also personal. Lord Stanley's speech, pronounced by eulogists to be his masterpiece, was no exception. Composed with all the skill that his natural cleverness and parliamentary practice could command, and comprising all the points and commonplaces of the subject, it did not contain one new idea-it placed nothing in a new light. But it reänimated the dead, recalled the forgotten, reproduced the abandoned; tricked them out in rhetoric that pleased the ear; and with the nice tact of a true speaking artist, touched very tenderly the frail topics that shunned the grasp of masculine reasoning and the light of exposure. The "great speech" was constructed as much as possible to inflict pain. some of the most studied passages, personal malignity towards Sir Robert Peel seemed to inspire every word. The assault, indeed, was clothed in decorous language, but not disguised; and when he, most untruly, described "his right honorable friend" as mistaking clamor for the deep still flow of public opinion, he but echoed in more courteous phrase the Duke of Richmond's imputation of incompetency and cowardice. The reason for this position of Lord Stanley is explained by the sequence of facts. Lord Stanley was not felicitous in the administration of colonial affairs; he was virtually set aside in the New Zealand business, THE debate lasted three long nights. With silenced when he would have given tongue, and fewer speeches, more elaborate preparation, a "pitchforked" into the house of lords, not as progreater stateliness of manner, and less unmeasured motion, but as a way of shelving him; and the serudeness in decorum than in the commons, the ries of significant facts is crowned by the outburst progress of the discussion has not fulfilled the of this speech. His object in it seems to have Duke of Richmond's promise, that after the first been to emulate, to outdo Mr. Disraeli. His stastage_personalities should be altogether avoided. tistics were similar, but not quite so wild: foreign The Earl of Ripon, who led the debate, began it, corn, for instance, is to come in under the new bill in no unworthy spirit however, with personal mat- at 40s., instead of 35s.; and the quantity, three ters: he made a great point of exonerating him- years hence, is to be not indefinite, but 5,000,000 self from the imputation of inconsistency. He, it of quarters. His language also was more subseems, the introducer of the corn-law of 1815, was dued-more "genteel"-in manner: but not in even at that time in the main opposed to any corn- spirit. Mr. Disraeli never attained office, and aslaw at all; and he assented, not on the score of sails Sir Robert Peel: Lord Stanley has lost of"protection to native industry," but "independ- fice, and assails Sir Robert Peel. The Disraeli of ence of foreign countries." So likewise the Earl the lords is as clearly a disappointed man as his of Haddington, it now turns out, has long avow-prototype in the commons. The single new fact edly changed his mind on the subject of protection. in Lord Stanley's speech, if it is new, was the It is easy to sneer at these avowals and treat them confession that in Sir Robert Peel's cabinet he as insincere: there is every reason to believe them quite sincere. Had these peers possessed a mere ambition for place, they might have whistled off Sir Robert Peel, and, by strengthening Lord Stanley, have prepared a new way to office; for, thus supported, his prospect would have been very different from what it now is. But, whatever the motive that actuates them, the effect is plain: Sir Robert Peel's advance in the direction of free trade has induced an extraordinary move among the quondam tories: free-traders, it appears,

From the Spectator, 30 May. THE DEBATE IN THE LORDS, ON THE CORN

BILL.

was quite alone in resisting the proposal to abolish the corn laws. Lord Haddington appears to have been at first a supposed companion in dissent; but he was really as hearty in assent as any. Of all the leading men in the conservative party, therefore, Lord Stanley is the only one who deserts the onward policy of Sir Robert Peel.

Personalities also formed a prominent feature in some whig speeches. The party held a meeting at Landsdowne House on Saturday, and agreed to act in a body as supporters of the bill. It is evi

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