was-if it be a curse in every country in which it exists; and if legislation can grapple with it,-then the bill was delusive, and a mockery. Lord John, in his speech, complained of synodical action. The bill left that untouched. The greatest condemnation of Lord John's bill was Lord John's speech. Disraeli could say nothing stronger against it than what his lordship himself implied. The truth was, to gain a little transient popularity, or to draw off public attention from the growing cry for further Financial and Parliamentary Reform, the First Minister of the Crown stooped to a line of conduct of which the veriest demagogue might have been ashamed. An intense anti-Catholic feeling was aroused. From almost every county and townfrom almost every sect and class-petitions went forth expressing burning indignation at the foolish aggression of the Pope. To whatever an Englishman is indifferent, he is not to the growth of the power which in time past lit up the fires of Smithfield, or the auto da fe's of Goa and Madrid, or which, even at the present day, condemns to the degradation of the jail the lover of his country and his kind. Under the influence of that feeling, men steeped in everlasting infamy-such as Titus Oates, or Sacheverell, or Lord George Gordon -have strutted on the stage the heroes of an hour. A wise Minister would have paused ere that feeling was rashly excited. A wise Minister would have considered his power of controlling the storm ere he had bidden it ride forth. A wise Minister, before he put him

self in collision with a system, the influence of which exists in every land, would have kept for himself a way of coming out of the strife victorious. Lord John Russell signally failed in doing this. All that he did by his bill was to proclaim a weakness it had been easy to conceal, and to put in bolder relief the magnitude of Papal pretences and the littleness of Ministerial legislation. His letter was a sham. He but touched upon the surface of the evil, and that in a manner not difficult to evade. In all its intensity, the evil remains the same. "With our pleasant vices we make the whips with which we scourge ourselves." That Ecclesiastical Title Bill sealed Lord John's career as Premier. To retain office he had to descend from that lofty position. Under the Aberdeen Administration he committed a similar mistake. A public system had broken down; a magnificent army had wasted away. By many an English fireside was it told how in that winter there had been, far away, a tragedy done unequalled in the worst days of official mismanagement, as criminal as any of the Walcheren and other forlorn efforts of the past. From one end of England to the other, wherever man met man, whether in the haunts of fashion or of business, whether at home or abroad, there were curses uttered, deep and loud, against the men responsible for these disasters. Parliament met; it was known that the first thing required would be the appointment of the Sebastopol Committee. Of course that was a vote of censure on the existing ad

ministration; but instead of calmly awaiting the vote, and endeavouring to defend himself and his colleagues, Lord John had the littleness to abandon his post, and to cast stones at the men with whom he had sat at the council-board. Again, in his haste to appear before the world, he rushed to Vienna, there still further to be duped and rendered ridiculous. That his lordship, as he grows older, does not grow wiser, is clear from his having had recourse to his old tactics only the session of parliament before the last. Reform was a matter of such vital importance that it could not be trusted in the hands of the Derby Cabinet; only Lord John Russell could deal with such a delicate subject. Lord John moved his memorable resolutions. Lords Palmerston and Russell forgot their ancient feuds and swore eternal friendship; the liberal rank and file followed suit; the Derby administration was rejected; and as a practical result, reform was delayed-may I write in secula seculorum?

It may be asked, is his lordship's oratory of so fascinating a character as for a time to render the House of Commons blind to his many faults? By no means. Look at him marching into the lobby—frigid, dwarfed, and self-complacent. For such a man there can be no real enthusiasm on the part of those who know him, See him in the House-always equally cold and chilling, and civil to all around. Follow him to the platform and the hustings, he is the same repellant, unattractive Whig. But he has lived for the House of Commons, and the House is not ungrateful. To Lord

John also is due the merit of having led the House efficiently in time past. In this respect his tact was only equalled by that of his great rival, Sir Robert Peel; and in knowledge of forms and precedents by many he was considered the superior of that distinguished man. There was really something grand in the aspect of the House under his leadership. It was a remarkable instance of the triumph of mind over matter. In a crowded House, at the close of a heated debate, you would see the smallest man in the House advance to the table, and the noise of the House, and the murmur of many voices, was hushed and still; the opposition became attentive; strangers would lean forward their heads; peers and diplomatists would hearken. Seemingly careless and slovenly, the speech would be found to contain the right amount of liberalism to go down with the back benches; parts would be elaborately polished, and sparkle with a quiet irony which the audience would not be slow to appreciate, nor reluctant to apply.

Lord John has much to contend with. His outward form is frail and weakly; his countenance sicklied over with the effects of solitary communing; his figure shrunk below the ordinary dimensions of humanity; his general air that of a meditative invalid. But within that feeble body is a spirit that knows not how to cower, an undaunted heart, an aspiring soul. His voice is weak, his accent drawling and provincial, his elocution broken, stammering, and uncertain, save in a

few lucky moments, when his tongue seems unloosed, when he becomes logical, eloquent, and terse. Then is his right hand convulsively clenched, his head proudly thrown back, the outline of his face becomes rigid, and his dwarfed figure expands as if he were a giant. Lord John is sometimes very happy, as when, in his letter to the electors of Stroud, he declared that "the whisper of a faction shall not prevail against the voice of a nation;" or when, in answer to Sir Francis Burdett, who charged him with the cant of patriotism, he told the baronet there was also such a thing as the recant of patriotism. One of Lord John's most celebrated speeches is that known as the Aladdin Lamp Speech, delivered by his lordship in 1819, and which Sir Robert Peel read to the House during the debate on the Reform Bill, in 1831. "Old Sarum," said Lord John, "existed when Somers and the great men of the revolution established our government. Rutland sent as many members as Yorkshire, when Hampden lost his life in defence of the constitution. If we should change the principles of our constitution, we should commit the folly of the servant in the story of Aladdin, who was deceived by the cry of New lamps for old!' Our lamp is covered with dust and rubbish, but it has a magical power; it has raised up a smiling land, not bestrode with overgrown palaces, but covered with modest dwellings, every one of which contains a freeman enjoying equal protection with the proudest subject in the land. It has called into life all the busy creations of commercial