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There is no room in our country for a Cromwell, a Napoleon, ,

a Louis Philippe ; if there were, a friend of the people would play the conspicuous part in the modern drama.

We have been thus bold, because, at this present moment, we could trace the names of two or three popular members who are falling into error, who began their political career with a holy feeling of patriotism at their heart, and are ending by sickening at the ingratitude around them.

Thus is life,—ingratitude is the reward of merit, and politicians cannot expect to meet with kindlier feelings than the rest of mankind. Yet, despair not, ye who, following a manly career, have duty and honour at heart; the day will come when your name, respected and beloved, will be more appreciated, if your good deeds be done in secret,

than should they be eulogized and commented on at the precise moment of your exertion. In the poet's words, or rather against them, “ Deceive not the world with ornament, but remember that the truest patriots have been the most modest men.” Politicians, go forth and do good, rather than seek to be great ; let the cots of England be gladdened by your efforts, and power possess a sacred value in

your eyes.

The pomp of praise is not the supremest joy; man's truest recompense lies within his

own heart.





is the misfortune



blessing of millions; the glory of nations, or its curse.

Example shames the baseness of hypocrisy, and sheds the truest sympathy upon the ignorance of the untaught.

Not in the senate, not in the halls of greatness, not amidst fashion, luxury, and wealth, not amidst the feverish excitement of pleasure is example shown,—but in that quiet life, echoless to the great, but full of meaning

sound to the poor.

There is a tale which

outlives the decay of the form, which throws its eternal enchantment over the past, and teaches the present what to leave on record for the future. That vital religion of the heart which shows itself in the charming outpouring of English charity, the eye which pierces raylike through the darkness of want, the hand which falls like rainbow, type of earth's relief, upon the haunts of penury,—the eye of memory will consecrate these when the tears which once flowed upon the cold grave of the beloved had ceased to fall. A member of

Parliament is, in fact, master of a certain mass of people, and does not a secret, conscientious voice whisper him that, in return for a certain degree of power, he has a certain degree of responsibility. Yes, the conscious soul of man must have its secret outpourings, its hours of calm, unfettered calculation. Each moment of power wakes more reflection than moments of helplessness.

A moment is a mighty thing,

Beyond the soul's imagining;
For in it, though we trace it not,
How much there crowds of varied lot!
How much of life, life cannot see,
Darts onward to eternity!
While vacant hours of beauty roll
Their magic o'er some yielded soul,
Ah ! little do the happy guess,
The sum of human wretchedness;
Or dream, amid the soft farewell
That Time of them is taking,
How frequent moans the funeral knell,
What noble hearts are breaking,
While myriads to their tombs descend,
Without a mourner, creed, or friend !”

Men in power, read those lines of a sublime poet, and believe them true; countless thou

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