rian's page, where truth has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty.

3. Why, then, the noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular; it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compe. people to pay their debts; and, in that case, the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular, neither, to take away any of the privileges of Parliament: for I very well remember, and many of your lordships may remember, that not long ago, the popular cry was for the extension of privileges; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said that privilege protected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with this doctrine. It was indubitably an abominable doctrine: I thought so then, and think so still ; but nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the friends of liberty-how deservedly time will show.

4. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally administered to all-to the king and to the beggar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, that protects a member of Parliament more than any other man from the punishment due to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow no place nor employment to be a sanctuary for crimes; and, where I have the honor to sit as a judge, neither royal favor nor popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordships' time, and am sorry a bill fraught with so good cou. 3zquences, has not met with an abler advocate; but I doubt not your lordships' determination will convince the world, that a bill calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires, with your lordships, but very little s'ipport.

EXERCISE L.

SLEEP, MR. SPEAKER!

W. N PLAED.

ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR IN ONE OF THE DEBATEI

Sleep, Mr. Speaker ! 'tis surely fair
If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair.
Louder and longer now they grow,
Tory and Radical, Ay, and No!
Talking by night, and talking by day,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may !

II.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

III.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then;
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill.
You have more need of repose than they-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

IV.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;

Hume will, no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence.
Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
When loyalty was not quite a crime;
When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.
Dear me! how principles pass away-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may !

EXERCISE LI.

Thomas Hood, chiefly known as a comic poet and humorist, was born in London in 1795, and died in 1845. Though best known as a humorous writer, he was capable of moving the higher feelings to an extent that makes us regret that his tastes or his necessities kept him almost constantly in the region of fun, frolic, and gayety. Yet “even in his puns and levities,” says an able judge, “there is a 'spirit of good directed to some kindly or philan. thropic object." We give below two of his most celebrated pieces, in which he appears in the opposite lights of gayety and gravity-for which he is 80 remarkable.

PARENTAL ODE TO MY LITTLE SON.

THOMAS HOOD.

I.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear!)

Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits, feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

II.

Thou little tricksy Puck ! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair !)

Thou darling of thy sire !
(Why. Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In jpe's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

III.

Thou cherub—but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport, and mirth,
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail !)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From
every

blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose !)

Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint !)

IV.

Thou young domestic dove !
(He'll have that jug off with another shove !)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,

(He's got a knife !)

Thou enviable being !
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk

With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !)

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,

Stitch! stitch! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”