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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.
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
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soon
* See Note on Exercise XXXIII.
Hume will, no doubt, be taking the sense
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
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.
Thou happy, happy elf!
Thou tiny image of myself!
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits, feather light,
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 !
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub—but of earth;
In harmless sport, and mirth,
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 !)
Thou young domestic dove !
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
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 !
Play on, play on,
Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
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,
Stitch! stitch! stitch !
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”