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sticks. You wish to inveigle me into some devilish bargain.

Apollyon. Never fear. Nothing shall be asked of you but what may be safely complied with. Only promise to give over preaching.

two.-Friday evening. Observed Farmer Gilliflower coming home from market quite drunk, and sitting awry upon his horse.Saturday night. Posted myself within a bed-curtain, and whispered all night in Miss Bridget's ear.Sunday evening. A dinner of clergymen. After the cloth was removed, some choice anecdotes of a certain description from Dr Warmchair, seconded by the Reverend Mr Touchwood.

Bunyan. Enough-enough.

Apollyon. Monday morning. Went into Dame Plausible's shop to try the weights and measures. A pewter pint pot a good deal squeezed on one side. Sugars very damp.

Bunyan. The time will come, when it will be felt how much a light pound helps to weigh down a heavy soul.

Apollyon. Tuesday. Dressed myself in the clothes of a public character, and made a long speech in parliament. Two hours on my legs. Loud cheering.-Wednesday night. Gave a sly push to the elbow of a billiard-player, who presently went home and shot himself. Thursday morning. Little stirring. Accompanied a cart of sloes to the storehouse of a certain winemerchant.

Bunyan. No more—no more. Apollyon.-Friday evening. Attended a debating club in the north. Only five atheists present. President expelled because of a Bible having been found in his pocket. David Drearylengths elected in his place. Alexander Antichrist, secretary; Adolphus Utopianus Crackbrain, librarian.

Bunyan. I will hear no more of this; it makes me shudder.

Apollyon. You see what sort of a world you are attempting to reform. And what is the reward of your perseverance? You are locked up here as a fruit-stealer. To-morrow you must answer the charge before Justice Proudpaunch; and what will you say then, Mr Bunyan?

Bunyan. In truth, I know not. Apollyon. You will be put in the stocks, or perhaps in the pillory; and no person will ever listen to your preaching in future.

Bunyan. Alas! I am sore beset. Apollyon. What would you give me to carry you safe home, on a broomstick, to the sweet Mrs Bunyan?

Bunyan. I will mount no broom

Bunyan. Never while I have breath. Apollyon. What then? Must the author of the Pilgrim's Progress appear in the stocks as a common thief? Reflect, Mr Bunyan, reflect a little. Only pledge your word, and the barn door shall immediately fly open. You may either mount the broom or not, as you please.

Bunyan. Tempt me no farther.

Apollyon. Infatuated man! reflect once more, ere I leave you to your fate, Our conversation must speedily close.

Bunyan. The sooner the better; for let me tell you, those puffs of sulphur are none of the pleasantest.

Apollyon. I remember a Scottish preacher who thought otherwise. He said he was fond of a wrestle with me, because he generally felt easier after it. I allude to the Reverend Mr Daniel Fidget, whose celebrity was by no means founded on the whiteness of his linen.

Bunyan. What have I to do with Daniel Fidget? Leave me.

Apollyon. One word more. If you will not promise to give over preaching, I am willing to relieve you from your present embarrassment for a slighter consideration.

Bunyan. What is that?

Apollyon. Only recite the creed, leaving out every fourth word. Bunyan. It is not for me to make or meddle with the creed.

Apollyon. Come then, I will assist you gratuitously. Put your staff between your legs, and I will change it into a most beautiful griffin, with golden claws, which will carry you out through the roof, in the easiest manner possible.

Bunyan. Claws are still claws, although they be gilded.

Apollyon. The saddle shall be velyet; and you will travel as smooth as a morning's dream, or a pigeon with a love-letter.

Bunyan. (Bitterly.) To what place, thou prince of sharpers? To what place? Do you take me for a dolt ?

Apollyon. Why, home, to be sure. What is the matter?

Bunyan. Home ?-Crocodile!

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with the Parson. Bunyan. 'Tis well. Now shall this fresh-water theologer be made to know what real service is. Hush!-the door is open. Gripe hard, and stick to each other.

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(Steals out, and locks the door upon them.

Apollyon. He is gone, but you are as good. We shall have a rare night of it.

Parson. O Lord, have mercy upon me!

Scene VI. A Sequestered Valley. Bunyan. Safe again. Miraculously have my legs performed their duty. Morning begins to dawn. Here is a little meadow, where the hay has been gathered into ricks; a spot of exceeding pleasantness for a weary man. Triumph, John Bunyan, triumph! Thou hast foiled the Tempter, and quitted thyself nobly; wherefore lie down, and repose in peace. shining ones, who so oft in prison have inspired my dreams, reward me now with a vision of the celestial city.

Ye

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nace,

Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners;
That their unstedfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel: This conceiv'd,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one,
Climbs by the bed-post to the tester there,
Up to the main-top, and discover. He
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards;
And wills them, if they'll save their ship
and lives,
To cast their lading over-board. At this
All fall to work, and hoist into the street,
As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteds,
cups,

Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;

They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling

Upon the floor, as if he swum for life:
A third takes the base-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the belly 'on't, labours, and rows;
His oar, the stick with which the fidler plaid:
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to scape
(As did Arion) on the dolphin's back,
Still fumbling on a gittern.-

multitude,

-The rude

Watching without, and gaping for the spoil Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it;

The Constable is call'd to atone the broil; Which done, and hearing such a noise within Of eminent shipwreck, enters th' house, and finds them

And think it Neptune's Trident; and that he Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his watch)

In this confusion: they adore his Staff,

To calm the tempest and appease the waves: And at this point we left them.

THOUGHTS, FROM A WHIG, ON THE QUALIFICATIONS OF A SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

MR EDITOR,

THE vacancy which lately occurred in the office of SPEAKER, gave THE COM

MONS an opportunity of exercising their high privilege of election, and may furnish, with an excuse for submitting his humble notions of the talents and qualifications necessary to that office, a correspondent, who uses the plural number only because it is less hurtful to his ear than the singular. His views are amenable to controversy. And, while that stands fairly open, you are editorially exonerated from giving currency to sentiments which, individually, it is quite possible you could neither sanction nor admit.

Towards the last Speaker we are inclined to cherish nothing but that feeling of regret which is natural at parting with a name which had so long met our eyes in the political journals, and a figure with which we were familiar in some of the most interesting moments of our lives. And who that has stepped into the House, even of very late years, pending a great debate, when the lamented Horner was to engage the affections of his opponents by his candour and paramount regard to truth, to excite their deference by his deep science, and the attention of all who heard him by his "grave and forcible manner;" or when Samuel Whitbread was to stand up as the voluntary, unhired representative of the human race, or the vindicator of the moral character of his country:-who, that has witnessed such things, does not associate them with some of his better impressions? We recollect, with the veneration of youthful enthusiasm, the temper of mind under which we used to visit the House in our earlier pilgrimages to London, that land of promised glories and delights, which, though not found, or fleeting when found, we now value perhaps too highly, because the occupation of other pursuits," as empty quite," prevent us from thinking of them as we could wish, or from trusting ourselves yet once more on the sea of their anxieties and enjoyments. Some good-natured member had told us that such and such a question was to come on, when certain men on both sides were to speak. Away we hied, after a hasty dinner at some tavern in the neighbourhood of Westminster, -panting with expectation,-feeling our own importance most immoderately, inasmuch as all this din of preparation and trial of intellect seemed to be prepared for us,-and occupied with

"thick-coming fancies" of the earlier feats of Fox and Sheridan, and the magic of Erskine. After passing the gross scrutiny of a fat and presumptuous porter, opposite the door of the House of Lords, to whom the license and free awkwardness of our gait seemed no recommendation, we rushed up stairs at once into the gallery. There we commonly made shift to squeeze down as near a front seat as possible, at the expense of the toes, and to the endangerment of the powder and curls of some penurious bachelors, who had taken their places near the reporters, as a cheap way of spending the evening. The hour was six, or half-past; the time, a summer's evening, about the end of May; the House thin, quiet, and languid;—the tender light breaking in from the large window looking to the Speaker's garden, chequered now and then by the chancewaving of the trees which shaded it, or a boat or two softly gliding past its surface on the silver Thames, which the fresh coolness of the evening seemed to have smoothed to perfect calmness, that the rippling of the oars, or the motion of the boat, might make that stream appear as the creature of man, pent in, and meted in its very risings, for his use and pleasure. If a boat-race, as was not uncommon, happened to be going on, there passed the light wherries, with their party-coloured rowers, their gay streamers, and their nicely feathered oars; while now and then the firing of a gun, or a cheerful huzza, announced the success of the happy victor. Within sat the Speaker; a few straggling members passing to and fro, or seated by sixes and sevens on the treasury bench; with Mr Bankes among them,-very much busied in person, and apparently much occupied in mind. Clerks were reading private bills in a low tone, and the Speaker measuring out motions (which nobody could be said to make, for they were all read from slips of paper which had been invisibly handed to him),— and all the while, with but half his dignity about him, resolving that he should leave the chair-and then slipping easily down on the nearest seat of the treasury bench, while Mr Bankes took his place at the tableand the House resolved itself into a committee-and the bill was read a second time. Thus passed the hour till the tug of war came, and some of

the master spirits of our isle :-But we can go no farther.-All we can say is, we now look back on those occasions as some of the happiest of our lives, and should have but little selfesteem could we be shamed out of the remembrance of them by the raillery of wiser heads.-There Mr Abbott's voice was always to be heard; and his still and calm formality, with his under-tones of moderated, and sometimes, we have no doubt, tedious and unwilling, dignity, soothed down our spirits from the rack of excitement to which the mighty themes and mighty masters had screwed them. To be serious, the office is highly respectable, and Mr Abbott did not disgrace it. For our parts, we never felt the slight est emotion of disrespect, nor waxed from the chilling dignity and severe abstraction with which he struck our eyes, sitting in his box-like chair placed backwise to the light,-except when he articulated the words, "Strangers will withdraw." On these occasions, or when he vociferated "Order! order! at the bar!" with more than usual vehemence, we have, for the moment, given way to a rebellious feeling.

Mr Abbott's honourable labours are over. By the favour of his sovereign, and with the approbation of that House at whose councils he so long presided, he has been raised with honour to the titled bench of nobility; and to this reward of merit, the voice of the people throughout the country has responded. A new Speaker fills his place with proper dignity and discretion, with promises of a kindred excellence, and with the private confidence and regard of men on both sides of the House. But a general election is at hand. The next House, at its first meeting, must of new have recourse to the august and truly English ceremony of choosing a Speaker. He must originate from the solemn and unquestionable suffrage of the greatest legislative assembly on earth, and receive the stamp and sanction of his dignity from the sovereign magistrate of a state which has used the forms of liberal government longer than any other since the Christian era. A little time may therefore not be wasted in taking a simple estimate and rapid glance of those qualities, which, at this time of day, the people of England may not unnaturally expect to

find in that man who is afterwards to preside in that assembly, which is the organ of their rights, and the depositary of their interests.

The House of Commons is the practical medium, provided by the civil constitution of Britain, between the rage of popular enthusiasm on the one hand, and the dull, inert, and fruitless pageantry of mere noble rank, high office, and ministerial presumption, on the other. The office of Speaker is one of the only few remaining ones which have an air of republicanism about them, and carry us back pleasingly to the good old stiff days of Cromwell, Vane, and Bradshawe; when Marvell was member for Hull, with John Hambden; and when Milton was Latin Secretary to the Parlia ment: or, a little farther back, when May wrote its history, fresh from Lucan, but not with the spirit of Mr Southey.

By a beautiful fiction of our constitutional law, though the king has the prerogative of peace and war, under the advice of ministers responsible with their lives and fortunes for what they advise, the Parliament can refuse the supplies, and thus put a stop to the wildest designs of the most highsouled monarch. The Speaker is the organ by which that House makes known to the Sovereign, personally, its wishes and determinations. He is to guide debate in an assembly, where, if there is any thing like an high spirit of honour, a vehement pursuit of power and office, or any of those

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spirit-stirring" motives that agitate great minds, contentions may arise which will require all the efforts of cool wisdom to moderate them. The Speaker is to decide on difficult questions of form. He is to lay down the line of practice on those great points of constitutional law, which will occur the more frequently, the more fully the House and the Speaker understand and value their privileges as representatives of an intelligent people. He is

May translated Lucan in a rugged, stately, English verse, rather inharmonious and trying to modern ears, but with much of the stern impressiveness, and dark and His History of the Parliament was called, forcible delineation of that poet of liberty. by the truly great WARBURTON," an extraordinary performance, written with great temper, good sense, and spirit, and the qualities of a regular composition."

to bear up all ascertained and accustomed privileges of the House against oversights of the ennobled legislature, the conflicting authority of courts of law, or the less perceptible and more untangible influence of the sovereign himself. By his casting vote he may decide questions of the greatest moment to the safety of the state, and the liberty of the subject. On his personal character-on his love and right understanding of liberty-on the reach and vigour of his capacity, -it depends whether he shall exonerate himself well from a responsibility which is almost awful. On the same grounds he may, under some happy conjuncture of circumstances, infuse a spirit into the House, and give a character to its whole proceedings. He has to return its thanks to those who have done eminent service to their country. His taste and literture, therefore, are of some consequence. For the historian is guided, after all, in his estimate of the taste, turn of thought, and spirit of the age, by those memorials of the national gratitude to the heroes who have fought for it, or to the sages who have benefitted it, which are scattered through the journals of its parliament. The Speaker will be a grave, stiff, slow man of precedent; and, however wide his reach of thought, or correct his own internal estimate of things, he must appear to be guided by forms rather than by substances. Forms are often essential parts of our liberties. Forms are the landmarks by which these liberties have been ascertained and made palpable to the general mind, after their value had been evinced through the happy generalizations of first thinkers, and their existence assured by the struggles and blood of patriotism. They are the expedients by which, as a great mind has determined it, the high-souled benefactors of their species first "kept measures with prejudice, which they deemed necessary to the order of society," and by which "they imposed on the grossness of the popular understanding by a sort of compromise between fact and right. So in all free states much depends on forms, that, to ardent spirits, may appear cold, trifling, unseemly, and sometimes contemptible. If a Speaker, however,

*See Vindicia Gallica," p. 302.

should, on great questions, hamper the House with a reference to precedents not often acted on, or forms not essential to the constitutional efficacy of its proceedings, he may lower the dignity of that House in the world, and shake its character with our country for freedom, and capacity for existing circumstances, and aptitude for emergent exigencies. If he happens to be a man that has leaped into public life from college and the bar,-with no taste for general speculation on the theory of law, government, and national polity, and with a relish for classical themes merely because they are ancient, or for what is ancient only because it is classical;-he may evince a taste accurate as to modes of expression, genteel manners, and a love of justice merely abstract;—but his appearances will be uninteresting. He will shew, on great occasions, a feebleness of intellect-seeking after trimness and neatness, rather than grasp and force of allusion-always reaching out the dignity of the House as in a state of mere competition with other dignities, rather than, what it essentially is, a mode by which the rights of that people which gave it existence are to be practically asserted. In particular circumstances, he will appear rather more out of place, and rather more ridiculous, if he puts forth his little hand to support the ark of the constitution when there is no danger nigh;-learning unthinking men, as Wordsworth says,

"To speak of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand-" Not recollecting that, in the house of which he is the mouthpiece, there have been, and may be, credulous, weak, unserviceable, and subservient sort of men,-while, perhaps, all that is effected for the safety and character of the nation within its walls is sown, germinated, fructified, and ripened, by the courage, intellect, and information, which exist without.

He should be a grave and discreet person; and, if it be possible to unite such varying qualities, full of that warmth which excites and sustains the eloquence of generous passion, and, when they are conjoined, makes the wise pliancy which wins mankind appear a virtue. It is desirable, too, that he be fond, from early habit and subsequent conviction, of our old

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