give some rather awkward illustrations of the truth of the adage, that "he who acts as his own counsel has a fool for his client." "Ah! Mr. Cleave," said his lordship, with great pleasantry, "ah, Mr. Cleave! don't you mind that adage; it was framed by the lawyers." "the It is gratifying to add that of this illustrious man end was peace;" and that nothing so called forth Lord Lyndhurst's perpetual gratitude to God as that he had enabled him, by extending his life far beyond the allotted time, to "redeem the time." And nobly did he redeem the time. His mind was fully occupied with the importance of religion. He was incessant in the earnest preparations which he made for death. He applied all the power of his marvellous intellect and all his apprehensive quickness to the study of religion. Great as he was, he bowed down before the greatness of the Supreme Being. Through religion his natural kindliness and loving disposition were refined into the highest Christian graces, which were profusely shown in his relations with all who came in contact with him-wife, daughter, servants, everybody. His last articulate words were "Happy, happy, happy," and happy he was indeed. Those who ministered to him knew his true humility, his hearty repentance, his serene and earnest hope. He died in peace and charity with all mankind.* MACAULAY IN PARLIAMENT. M. Mignet, the French historian, in a brief sketch of the debates on the Reform Bill, thus vividly describes Macaulay. "During that long and solemn discussion Mr. Macaulay spoke often and eloquently. He delivered five speeches successively, all worthy to be preserved. In merely considering his magnificent talent, which suggested comparisons with Burke, it may be said with truth that he placed himself by his copious diction, his elevation of thought, and his energy, in the rank of the great political orators. He enters vigorously on his subject, and masters it. His reasoning is solid rather than pompous, firm as well as rhetorical. In his short or in his swelling periods, incisive or harmonious, he indulges in no details which would weaken the interest of his subject. He no more abuses history, from which he draws his telling evidence, than he does the eloquence with which he inflicts * Sermon, preached at St. George's Church, Hanover-square. such unerring blows. His speeches, carefully studied as they were, seem as if they were conceived the moment they were delivered. They show consummate labour, and yet the movement of improvisation; and they combine studied eloquence with freedom. The moment he stood up to speak, Whigs and Tories crowded the benches of the House. Without the external qualities of the orator, he produced great oratorical effect. On a massive bust (it is thus he is represented) rose a strong and expressive head. His feet remained as if fixed to the ground. His left arm flung behind him, while with his right, and by some abrupt movements, he seemed to push, as it were, his words before him. It was in this rigid attitude, and in a tone of voice at first grave, that he opened those florid but ardent discourses, copious but impetuous, which gradually acquired an irresistible force. Then it grew to be a torrent of strong-ideas, of convincing facts, of able considerations, of noble sentiments, of close reasonings, of splendid images, all of which rolled on without confusion, and carried everything before it. His hearers, among whom were as many adversaries as partisans, followed him, astonished or delighted, and he obtained, from the approval of his ideas by some, applauses which admiration of his talents drew from others." SIR JAMES GRAHAM IN PARLIAMENT. When, in a time of great political agitation, a Bill was introduced prohibiting any person from taking part in the proceedings of a town meeting who was not an inhabitant or freeman of the place, Mr. (afterwards Sir James) Graham wished to know if a member who sat for a borough of which he was neither inhabitant nor freeman would come within the mischief of the Act? He paused to listen for the report of his shot; but few were attending, and nobody cried "Hear." He looked to see if it had hit; but the Under-Secretaries were talking to one another on the Treasury Bench, and Lord Castlereagh was occupied in smelling the hothouse flower in his button-hole. Mr. Graham repeated his question in other words, but with no better effect. He felt half vexed with himself at having got up, but he was up and must go on; so he thought he would argue the point. The case was not an imaginary one, he said, for it was his own, as he happened to sit for a borough of which he was neither a freeman nor an inhabitant, and of which he was not likely to become either, having no connexion with the place. At this unlucky proffer of irrelevant information, he heard, or thought he heard, something like a suppressed laugh. He felt himself getting confused, a little at first, and then very much so. For a few minutes he rambled on through commonplace and reiteration, but no timely cheer came to his rescue, and he sat down without any distinct recollection of what he had said or what he had intended to say. Mr. Henry Lascelles, who sat opposite, whispered to a mutual friend, "Well, there is an end of Graham; we shall hear no more of him.”—Life by Torrens. When, in 1834, Sir Robert Peel was about to form his ministry, a King's messenger was despatched to Sir James Graham, who was found about to dine at the rectory at Artharet, and with certain politicians of a strong blue tint. One of these, bursting with impatience, suddenly asked him, "Well, Sir James, what are you thinking of doing?" "The only thing I am thinking of doing just now," he answered, "is of eating a good dinner." It was during the debate on the Address, at the opening of the next Session of Parliament, that O'Connell quoted the lines of Canning as descriptive of Sir James Graham and those who, with him, were then led by Lord Stanley,-neither a party nor a faction. What is it, he asked, that Down thy hill, romantic Ashburne, glides? "No political sobriquet," remarks Mr. M'Cullagh Torrens, ever stuck more closely, and few ever more effectually served their purpose." Personally, Sir James Graham was, in 1844, the most unpopular statesman of the day. "How do you account for it," said a mutual friend standing one day below the bar to a noble lord whom Sir James had lately complimented highly in debate, and towards whom he had certainly never shown anything like disrespect. "How? Why just look at him, as he sits there, with his head thrown back, and his eyes fixed on the windows over the gallery, as if there was nothing going on in the House worth his listening to." Another distinguished supporter, when asked why so many people hated him, replied, "He has cocked his hat on the wrong side of his head; and depend upon it, that's a mistake not easily got over." In 1847, when addressing the House one evening, on the oft-debated subject of the connexion between the rate of wages and the price of food, Sir James reiterated his declaration that experience had convinced him that the former had a constant tendency to rise in proportion as the latter fell. Lord George Bentinck, who was sitting on the front Opposition bench below him, threw back his head, and, looking at him, exclaimed, "Ah! yes, but you know you said the other thing before." A shout of laughter, in which Sir James joined, was followed by cheers and counter-cheers; and curiosity was on tip-toe for the retort. From his perch, as he used to call it, the ex-minister looked down at his noble antagonist, and said in a tone of ineffable humour,-"The noble Lord's taunts fall harmless upon me; I'm not in office now." In 1852 he again stood for Carlisle, abolishing all necessity for apologies and explanations by the simple words, "Well, gentlemen, the wanderer has returned." He was elected, and returned thanks. 66 Somebody had said that if he were returned, Carlisle would be called a refuge for the destitute. Well, that was a better name for it to bear than an hospital for the incurable." No one knew better than Sir James Graham how to ward off an attack on the hustings. In 1859, when a squib was published styling him a weather-cock, he retorted, "Well, I think it very likely that on the day of election I shall show which way the wind blows." In power of work Sir James Graham and Sir Robert Peel were the admiration of each other, and of all who knew them. When Sir Philip Crampton, on one occasion, found Sir Robert Peel not looking over well, he ventured to suggest that the Premier did not allow himself sufficient time for rest and relaxation. "Do you think so?" was Peel's reply. "Why, what I do in the way of work is nothing to what Graham does." Mr. Torrens relates the following instance of want of graciousness in this unpopular statesman :-" In 1837, on the death of King William, Lord John Russell came to the bar of the House of Commons charged with a Message from the Queen. Hats were immediately ordered off, and even the Speaker announced from the chair that members must be uncovered. Every one complied with the injunction except Sir James Graham, who continued to wear his hat until the first words of the Message were pronounced. His doing so was the subject of some unpleasant remarks in the newspapers; and at the meeting of the House next day he rose to explain that in not taking off his hat until the word Regina Iwas uttered he but followed the old and established custom -a custom which he deemed better than that observed by everybody else in the House. The Speaker then said that Sir James Graham was quite right, that he was strictly within rule in not uncovering until the initiatory word of the Message was delivered. If Sir James Graham had the letter of the law on his side, still there was a stiffness in his conduct which, considering that the message came from a young Queen, and was her first message to her faithful Commons, was not over attractive. WELLINGTONIANA. Sir Walter Scott once described the Duke of Wellington's style of debating as "slicing an argument into two or three parts, and helping himself to the best.' Colonel Gurwood relates, the Duke complained that liberties were taken with him. He said, when he went to Court, after William the Fourth's death, the Duke of Cambridge said, "Why, Duke, why d'ye have your hair so short?" Directly after, the Duke of Sussex said, "Why are you not in mourning, Duke?" The Duke said, "I ordered black, your Royal Highness." "Ah," said he; "it is not black. It is what the French call tête-de-negre.” "The Duke of Marlborough," said the Duke to Gurwood, "because he was an old man, was treated like an old woman. I won't be. And the reason why I have a right never to have a liberty taken with me, is because I never take a liberty with any man." Colonel Gurwood said that the Duke, although he had known Lord Fitzroy Somerset from a boy, always called him Lord Fitzroy. "The rat has got into the bottle" was the Duke's favourite saying, when people tried to persuade him to do what he had made up his mind not to do. "This not very intelligible expression," says Mr. Tom Taylor, “ 'may refer to an anecdote I have heard of the Duke's once telling, in his later days, how the musk-rats in India got into bottles, which ever after |