of talent, either for eloquence or business, both in the French Chamber of Deputies and the English Reformed House of Commons. The observation that there is less talent and business power in the Reformed Parliament, than in any House of Commons in the annals of England, is universal; and the reason is obvious. The House is chosen in such a way, at haphazard, by the 1,200,000 legislators who now give law to Britain, that it is a hundred chances to one if the choice of the electors falls on a person capable of discharging the duties of a legislator. Men of all descriptions, professions, and habits, are brought together by the caprice of that lightest of created things— the multitude-in such a way that a stable efficient legislature is out of the question. From such a Parlia ment, we grieve to say, neither firmness, nor wisdom, nor resolution, can be permanently expected. They will ever, we fear, be disposed to yield to the storm; in moments of agitation or movement, to the demands of the populace; in ages of corruption, to the seductions of the Government. But General Donnadieu's remarks suggest a still more important reflection, and that is, on the absolute necessity of aristocratic influence and authority, to resist the ascendency which the Government must, in the end, acquire in every European state without their support; and the utter inability of a democratic society, in which property is minutely subdivided, and influence much separated, to maintain a lasting contest with the power or the seductions at the command of the executive. This is a consideration of vital importance in these days of democratic ambition, when the slightest resistance on the part of the nobility to the popular wish, or the slightest reflection on the popular leaders, is made the instant ground for a loud and tyrannical demand for their abolition, as a separate branch of the Legislature. It is well in such days to look to what has resulted from the annihilation of the nobility in a neighbouring kingdom; to see the effects of the fusion of all the legis lative power in one Chamber in France; and to meditate on the utter prostration which has thence arisen in that country of all interests in the state, before the mob of the capital, or the prætorian guards of the sovereign. The ablest men in France now perceive, with bitter and unavailing regret, that the destruction of the aristocracy and of the church has rendered the formation of a constitutional monarchy impracticable; and that they have no alternative but the anarchy of democracy, or the oppression of despotism. In this country, it is not as yet too late to stop short in the career of servitude. The premonitory symptoms are strong upon us; but we have not yet fallen into the collapse, and the elements of long and healthful existence are still to be found in the state. But let us beware in time-the aristocracy received a blow all but fatal by the Reform Bill; the strongest bulwark of freedom was overthrown by that stroke. Another such shock, and the elements of constitutional freedom will not exist, and we too shall have no alternative, but American equality, or Asiatic servitude. All warnings and lessons from history will probably be thrown away; we, too, to all appearance, will rush upon our fate; the aristocratic class, the only lasting defenders of freedom, will be overthrown; and our children and children's children will weep, in the degradation and servitude of the Byzantine empire, the infatuation and insanity of their guilty forefathers. In another paper in this Number,* we have traced the progress of rational and constitutional Reform, under the firm and able government of Prussia. As a contrast, nothing can be more remarkable than the picture now afforded of the fatal tendency of democratic power in France. The one country, under a resolute and enlightened government, is rapidly advancing in prosperity, and in the acquisition of all the habits which fit it for constitutional freedom; the other, tossed about by the passions of a jealous democracy, is fast descending through years of suffering to centuries of servitude. * Prussia, or the Progress of Rational Reform. HYMNS OF LIFE. BY MRS HEMANS. No. III. BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS. SCENE.-The banks of a solitary river in an American Forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent with a child in her arms, apparently sleeping. Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream-a fever-dream! The strange red sunrise and the gloomy woods, And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear, Through the wreath'd sweet-brier, at my lattice panes, Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies, And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. (Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling touch! To journey on without the blessed light In his deep loving eyes-he's gone-he's gone! Her HUSBAND enters. Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last The couch made ready for his last repose. Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet! If he but left me for a few short days, This were too brief a gazing-time, to draw His angel-image into my fond heart, And fix its beauty there. And now-oh! now, Never again the laughter of his eye Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul— Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay! Thou canst not take him from me. Husband. My belov'd! Is it not God hath taken him? the God That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, Under the turf of England, seem'd not half, Not half so much to part me from my child And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers, Husband. Dost thou grieve, Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep Agnes. Forgive, forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild- [Kneeling down with the child in her arms. If nature hath rebell'd, [Giving the child to her Husband. Go from my bosom now to other rest! With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, Husband. Now, my wife, Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose- Agnes. My Edmund, where Seest thou where the spire Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun To burning gold?-there-o'er yon willow-tuft? Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the grey mosses of the wilderness Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth, E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart, A wild, sad forest-hymn-a song of tears, Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy Chanting it o'er his solitary task, As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, Agnes. My gentle son! Th' affectionate, the gifted!-With what joy- Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully In that kind youthful breast!-Oh! now no more- For many a blessing left. (Bending over the Child.) Once more farewell! Oh! the pale piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustained? Away, away! [After a short pause. Edmund, my woman's nature still is weak- Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer! Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope We must be Pilgrims of the Woods again, After this mournful hour. [He goes out with the child. Agnes kneels in prayer. After a time voices without are heard singing And to Her who bore him, Her who long must weep, From his pale, sweet sleep! Those blue eyes of Love and Peace again Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, Earth to earth alone! God and Father! may our journeyings on VOL. XXXIV. NO. CCX. H |