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hard enough to bear-misrepresentation was added to censure, and every fault of home misgovernment was saddled upon the faithful but friendless

servant.

But let us change this theme, which grows too sad,

and turn to something livelier.

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Before we take leave of Parliament, a word must be given to its domestic arrangement. The "restauration of the House (a word very much objected to by one of her Majesty's judges, who prefers the truly British expression, "a cook's shop," as more expressive) furnishes matter for a new version of the feud between "the belly and the members;" only in this case it is not the Members who quarrel with the belly, but with what they put into it, and the price they pay for the attempt to satisfy their appetites.

One honourable gentleman, who has probably gone as near the wind in the qualification-clause as it was possible to do, objects vehemently to the quality of his wine. It is neither dry nor mellow, neither nutty nor fruity, neither light nor full-bodied. It won't inspire him with eloquence, like the port Mr. Pitt used to drink. When he gets upon his legs after dinner, he finds he has nothing to say; and the only thing he recollects is, that what he drinks costs him six shillings a bottle, and isn't really worth half the money. Another honourable member makes "prandial orthodoxy" the theme of his discourse, and complains of most heterodox bills of fare on Fridays, suggesting that a certain "beef-and-mutton man" should be struck off the committee, and a well-known lover of stewed eels and soupe-maigre take his place, in order to prevent a Roman Catholic fast from too literally accomplishing that Church's intention. Finally, a noble lord, who appears to add the office of caterer to his other numerous employments, rises in his place, and instead of moving for leave to bring in a bill for providing for some legislative necessity, produces a bill of fare, the charges in which he gravely contrasts with those made at the Blue Posts, the Rainbow, the Coal Hole, and other polite places of post-prandial resort in London, proving to a demonstration that "two chops-one to follow," can be had "in that House" for the reasonable sum of one shilling; that eightpence covers the damage, there as elsewhere, of "one sassage, one mashed 'tater, one bread;" and that there really is nothing "infamous" in charging a fourpenny-bit for a "go" of gin.

These gastronomic difficulties discussed, the House addresses itself to other social questions. Light and heat, ventilation and decoration, come successively on the tapis. The intentions of Dr. Reid are held to be "wicked or charitable" according to the bias of the speakers; and, like the Ghost in " Hamlet," it is a moot point whether he brings "airs from heaven or blasts from hell." Others assail Sir Charles Barry with praise as well as blame, one party extolling the beauty of the medieval embellishments, and another consigning all middle-age ornaments to perdition. The objectors are the most numerous. One member sees no advantage in substituting old lamps for new; another thinks that the lights would be better inside the House than out of it; a third inquires if it was the architect's design to brick up "strangers" as the mummy was bricked up which they lately found in the Speaker's dining-room; and a fourth

suggests, that if ladies are admitted to hear the debate, they ought not to be concealed behind a grating, like professed nuns or odalisques, but give the House at least the light of their countenances, if no light can be obtained from any other quarter. The alarmists muster in great force. Gentlemen are warned against sitting under the lamps, because they leak; and though it may be very advisable to throw oil upon an angry discussion, it is not quite so agreeable to have it poured over your best coat. The candelabra are described as worse than the sword of Damocles: that only threatened to drop; but these fall in real earnest, and find their way through the floor of the House, carrying with them any unfortunate member who may happen to be within their range. Mr. Hume is afraid of a heavy tumble if he ventures an incautious step-(we don't allude to his legislative efforts; they are past praying for)—on the polished marble and glazed tiles; and strangers have a great deal to say against the cold stone floors in Westminster Hall-the largest waiting-room in Europe, where forty or fifty "Saxons" are nightly compelled to stand for hours, "like so many felons in custody," till they can obtain admission into the gallery of that House from which all the members appear to be so desirous of escaping.

We have been long enough pent within the walls of St. Stephen's; let us change the air, and see what has taken place in other parts of the

town.

And first, let us go to the Princess's Theatre, and see the Keans. Here, "King John" has been put on the stage in an admirable manner as regards costume and scenery, while John the King is better played by Charles Kean than he has been since King John Kemble quitted the stage.

One of the pleasantest things that has happened-except the downfal of the Whigs-has been the re-opening of the St. James's Theatre, with Mr. Mitchell's incomparable troupe of Parisian artistes. The French stage has produced many marvels of talent, even in our own time, but probably the most marvellous of all is that wondrous creature who is still called Mademoiselle Dejazet.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety.

What she was a quarter of a century ago-all life, and fire, and wit, and sauciness-she still remains. Go to see her in the "Marquis de Lauzun," all ye who wish to know what it was that made society so entertaining in the reign of Louis XV. You have, in Dejazet's impersonation of the gay, reckless hero of the piece, a perfect transcript of a class with which, except at her hands, we are only familiar by tradition. How excellent, too, is the acting of Lafont! Would that our own stage could produce one like him!

But while we speak of those whose genius refuses to let them grow old, we must not forget that immortal evergreen, that tuneful laurel, the untiring Braham. Aged men were boys when he was in the zenith of his fame: when Nelson fell at Trafalgar, he sang the hero's monody; when our armies triumphed in the Peninsula, his voice rewarded those who could not share in the exploits of their fellow-countrymen; when, flushed with victory, the Duke at length returned, his were

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the notes that loudest hailed the conqueror's return. And now-with the weight of fourscore years upon his shoulders-a feather-weight for him-"the veteran," as he is emphatically called, to distinguish him from other men, comes boldly forward, and-first assuring Mr. Stammers and the public that he is still "blessed with health and strength"breaks forth in print to the tune of "The Soldier tired," as the prelude only to his more legitimate vocal exertions, and "dares again the field" at Exeter Hall; and so dares it, that those amongst his audience who hear him for the first time, inquire doubtingly who the young man is whose voice thrills them with so much pleasure; and when they are told that his name is Braham, go home under the agreeable impression that they have been listening to the wonderful tenor's great-grandson!

We can only account for the perpetual juvenility of Mademoiselle Dejazet and Mr. Braham by supposing that the lady has long been in the habit of wearing the Patent Cæstus-advertised, we believe, in the fly-leaves of this Magazine-which "preserves all the vital organs from pressure;" and that the gentleman refuses to indue his limbs in all other integuments save "Marshall's Idoneous trousers," which we are assured can be worn without the aid of braces or straps," and have that "graceful flow over the boot," which, like peace of mind, a well-boiled potato, or a correct estimate, is "so seldom obtained, yet so much sought after."

It is, after all, to the daily advertisements we must turn for everything that is to bring either consolation or enjoyment. We have been threatened by ourselves-with Invasion, for, to the best of our belief, the French have never given the subject a thought, beyond caricaturing the Panic in the Charivari—and, like the serpents' teeth sown by Cadmus, the numberless letters sent to the Times, are one and all redolent of armed men. Every hedgerow in Kent and Sussex bristles with belligerent hawbucks, cohorts of chaw-bacons encamp upon our commons, whole regiments of whapstraws lie in ambush in our chalkpits; the covers are alive with patriotic poachers! Woe to the French if once they expose themselves to our smockfrocked and gaitered Guerillas-if they come within range of the sharpshooters of Surrey, or oppose a front to the warriors of the Weald. There is nothing so easy as to convert a labouring and peace-loving population into a well-disciplined army; you have but to say the word, and the thing is done to your hand. If you doubt it, take up the first newspaper you meet with. What do you read there? "For seven guineas only"-the price is too ridiculously low to be worth a moment's consideration-you may equip yourself from top to toe in a bran-new rifle uniform, of visible or invisible green, feuille morte, or any sylvan shade you please; and for only seven guineas" more, a weapon is put into your hands that will shoot round a corner, and with its conical or comical-balls, hit everything you aim at, the safest objects to bring down being those entirely out of sight. There is, however, one piece of advice offered by the "Metropolitan Rifle Club" connected with these weapons, which we think somewhat superfluous. That body strongly impresses upon all other clubs throughout the kingdom the necessity for having only one bore. There was little need of this suggestion; the recommendation was a fait accompli—there is but "one bore" already, and that is the whole rifle-humbug itself.

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Stock, lock, and barrel, it is as crying a nuisance as the converse of its own purpose, the peace-patter of Cobden. If we must have riflemen, let us organise them in true military fashion-let them be real soldiers, not amateur sportsmen-model them after the fashion of "the fighting division" in the Peninsula, and then we shall know how to give a good account of the enemy when it falls to our lot to deal with him.

Having settled the point about "consolation," let us see what the advertisements offer us in the way of "enjoyment."

Electro biology is supposed by many not only to possess extraordinary virtues, but to exhibit vast attractions. Of its virtues, our opinion is about as exalted as Falstaff's idea of Dame Quickly's womanhood; and with respect to its attractions, when we can discover what pleasure there is in paralysing the functions of the weak, or in neutralising the faculties of those whose memory, will, and ordinary sensations have already been mpaired by disease, we shall be very happy to commend the new "science." Meanwhile we leave this "enjoyment" to that part of the community for whom Nature has no charms till she has first been exhausted and then galvanised.

We had hoped that the flea-bitten public had had enough of that kind of gratification, but it seems we were wrong. There is a certain individual, calling himself Herr Leirdersdorf, who announces the removal from one part of the town to another of "a cabinet" which, he says, "have gained for him so much renown." When these words first caught our eye, we paused admiringly. "Who is Herr Leirdersdorf?" we asked. "Is that a German designation-a nom de guerre of the penultimate Foreign Secretary?" He, we know, has just removed a Cabinet, and a good deal of what the world calls "renown" has accrued to him by the act; but Herr Leirdersdorf takes credit to himself-not for the removal, but the article removed, a thing quite out of the question. We must examine the matter a little closer. We do so, and then discover that the Cabinet he alludes to is a collection of "Russian fleas!" Every traveller north of the Vistula knows by fatal experience how easily such a collection may be made. The very first bed he sleeps in-no, not sleeps, that is impossible-lies down upon, in the dominions of the Czar, will convince him in less than five minutes that Russian fleas are no rarity, nor, unless he is strangely minded, will he count them among the paternal blessings diffused over that mighty empire. If questioned as to the legitimate uses of Siberia, the tortured traveller would unhesitatingly say that it was the proper place to which his midnight companions deserved to be banished; no hatred of his species could be strong enough to induce him to wish them further south. And yet the painstaking Leirdersdorf has actually taken the trouble to import a cargo of Russian fleas How he accomplished his task we will not stop to inquire. Let us hope that when he did so, his motive was-to civilise them!

But in discussing the merits of this fashionable collection, we find ourselves on the threshold of that Emporium of Entertainment, "Saville House," in Leicester-square. We could scarcely have brought our homily more appropriately to a close than at a spot where the public can so readily forget what is not attractive elsewhere. Entrez donc, Messieurs et Dames. Happiness is cheap at a shilling!

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THOMAS MOORE.

A spring now he is dead!

Of what?-of thorns:

These may grow still, but, ah! what Spring beside!

THE death of a great poet is felt as a national calamity; it sends a pang into every circle, and scarcely a family whose hearth does not seem for the time desolate. His name, cherished, loved, familiarly spoken, belonged to all, as that of a friend and brother. A thousand recollections are mixed up with his thoughts, which have been adopted, naturalised, repeated involuntarily by countless admirers, of whom, in his own secluded, peaceful retreat, the object of such fervent regard probably never dreamt. If this be the case with all the great authors whose fame is world-wide, how truly is it so with him whose death comes with the chilling winds of March.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white thorn blows-

Such, Lycidas, thy loss!

Moore the poet is dead! Why do we grieve so much to hear the knell, since it is merely a signal of peace after long suffering, a close of pain and sorrow-the last sound that ends a tale of lingering, wearing affliction? We should rather rejoice than mourn that the spirit which has, alas! too long hopelessly struggled to release itself from its earthly trammels, is free at last: but the word "Death" is so startling, so annihilating to Hope, that vainly we strive to suppress the painful sense of regret, but feel as if there had been no cause for mourning till now, although that eloquent tongue has long been mute-that melodious voice long silent, which, for more than half a century, breathed the very soul of music into the world we have lived in.

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We have paid his memory the tribute of our tears; let us endeavour now to do homage to his genius.

That genius shines forth under every possible aspect, changing its outward form with the varying impulses of the poet's career, but, in all its phases, ever true to itself. An outline of his life will assist us in carrying on our subject.

Thomas Moore was born on the 30th of May, 1780, in Aungierstreet, Dublin, where his father carried on a small trade in spirits and grocery-a condition of life which the poet never thought to conceal or mystify, though he might have claimed the army as his progenitor's April-VOL. XCIV. NO. CCCLXXVI.

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