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how they will finish. Sydney Smith satirised the undue tendency to antithesis on the part of Dr. Parr by a passage in which he supposes the doctor observing of some persons that “they have profundity without obscurity, perspicuity without prolixity, ornament without glare, terseness without barrenness, penetration without subtlety, comprehensiveness without digression, and a great number of other things without a great number of other things.” Mr. Horsman differs from “the learned critic and eminent divine” (whom there is too much reason to fear the multitude of the present day confound with the purveyor of pills) inasmuch that his proneness to the lavish use of antithesis is shown in the construction of his sentences as a whole rather than in the contrasting of isolated words. There is a curious expression about Mr. Horsman's face which consorts well with the general tenour of his Parliamentary addresses. Somebody-I think it is the author of “Rab and his Friends”-has said of a dog that it bore upon its face an expression of inquiring interest, as if life were for it a very serious thing. Mr. Horsman, when he is putting a question to Mr. Disraeli, has upon his face exactly the look which is here referred to, and which any one can see for himself by approaching an unfamiliar bull-terrier left in charge of the garden entrance to a house-a look of anxious, doubtful, half-surly inquiry, which may be the prelude either to a savage growl or an intimation that you may advance, according as the scrutiny proves satisfactory or otherwise. Mr. Horsman's influence upon a debate has greatly lessened in recent Sessions, but he is still a power in the House, and will probably before the Session is over have something soothing to say about his ancient adversary the present Premier.

Sitting in the corner seat of the front bench below the gangway on the Opposition side is a man so old and feeble looking that the stranger wonders what he does here. His white hair falls about a beardless face which is comparatively fresh looking, though the eyes lack lustre and the mouth is drawn in. When he rises to speak he bends his short stature over a supporting stick, and as he walks down to the table to hand in the perpetual notice of motion or of question, he drags across the floor his leaden feet in a painful way that sometimes suggests to well-meaning members the proffer of an arm, or of service to accomplish the errand, advances which are curtly repelled, for this is Mr. Roebuck, the “Dog Tear'em” of old, toothless now, and dim of sight, but still high in spirit, and ready to fight with snarl and snap the unwary passer-by. It is said in tea-room conversation that Mr. Roebuck has changed his political opinions oftener than any other man in the present House. Perhaps the allegation, whilst made in good faith, is unconsciously exaggerated, because Mr. Roebuck, on whichever side he has ranged himself, has always been in the van of opinion, and has prominently figured as its exponent, and consequently his facings about occupy a larger space in the memory than those of other men. There was a time when he was a thorough-paced Radical, a friend of Mr. Stuart Mill and Sir William Molesworth. He has twice graduated as a Tory, with some bewildering counter marches and strategic movements which have finally landed him in the political position he holds to-day, and which is best and most safely described as that of Mr. Roebuck, the member for Sheffield. In one of his papers in the Spectator, Addison, referring to the contemporary fashion amongst ladies of wearing patches stuck on one side or other of their faces according as they were Whig or Tory, says :-“I must here take notice that Rosalinda, a famous Whig partisan, has, most unfortunately, a very beautiful mole on the Tory part of her forehead, which being very conspicuous has occasioned many mistakes and given a handle to her enemies to misrepresent her face as though it had revolted from the Whig interest." Mr. Roebuck is in the same unfortunate predicament as the lady here referred to. He has a Whig mole on the Tory part of his forehead, and during his political career he has undergone much obloquy as a consequence of the numerous mistakes which have therefrom arisen.

Mr. Roebuck is a good lover and a good hater, chiefly the latter. A Parliamentary Ishmael, his hand has been against every one and every one's hand against him. Lord Palmerston, Mr. Disraeli, Mr.

, Bright, Mr. Cobden-in brief, every man of any prominence in the House of Commons during the past quarter of a century-has at one time or another felt the fangs of “Tear'em." The poor wit and coarse humour of Bernal Osborne were no match for the keen and poisoned darts that were shot forth from Mr. Roebuck's tongue. Mr. Bethel, since known as Lord Westbury, was perhaps the only man in the House in the days when there were giants who could beat him at his own weapons. The present Mr. Justice Keogh sometimes threw himself into the breach, and once even silenced the terrible talker for a whole night by a quotation from “Macbeth.” The House was in Committee, and Mr. Roebuck had been up three times with objections and aspersions. When Mr. Keogh rose he opened his remarks by observing

Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed.

Mr. Roebuck's persistent attacks upon the late Emperor of the French will not be forgotten by the present generation, who will also call to mind the sudden change which came over the hon. member's opinion of his Majesty at a later epoch of the Empire. In 1854 Mr. Roebuck, speaking in his place in the House of Commons, protested against the Queen of England advancing to be kissed by 'the perjured lips of Louis Napoleon.” Seven years later he went over to Paris to entreat the Emperor to interfere in the American Civil War in behalf of the Confederate States, and on his retur Napoleon III. had in England no warmer adherent or more respectful friend.

Writing last month about Mr. Ward Hunt, I ventured to describe the right hon. gentleman as “a scold," to refer to his possession of “a tone of voice and manner of speech which are strongly suggestive of the feminine art of 'nagging,'” and to derive from a study of “his cast of mind” small promise of “future manifestations of dignity." The number of the Gentleman's Magazine in which these remarks appeared was barely published when the First Lord of the Admiralty made his now famous speech, in which he seems to have astonished everybody by blusteringly falling foul of his predecessors in office, and letting his tongue trip away with the foolish, angry phrases about the “paper fleet" and the “dummy ships.” Mr. Ward Hunt is useful in contrast with Mr. Roebuck, as illustrating the difference between an ill-tempered man of suspicious mind and only average intellectual power, and one of the same temperament but gifted with high ability. Mr. Ward Hunt is undignified in his anger, and, what is worse, he is sometimes, as Mr. Goschen was fain to declare before the House of Commons,“ not fair in his statementsis scarcely ingenuous.” For lack of ability to conceive arguments he indulges in invective, and in order to support a theory he will paraphrase a statement of fact. He is like "the geographers ” described by Swift, who

in Afric maps
With savage pictures fill their gaps ;
And o'er unhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns.

Mr. Roebuck is able to dispense with such devices; and whilst he is ready enough to imagine evil things of his political adversaries, he is content to take their words as actually uttered and their actions as reputably reported, and of these make scorpions for their backs. In argument his style is clear and incisive, and he is a master of good, simple English, which he marshals in short, crisp sentences. His voice, now so low that it scarcely reaches the Speaker's chair, was once full and clear. As in his best days he never attempted to rise to anything approaching florid eloquence, so he rarely varied in gesture from a regularly recurring darting of the index finger at the hon. member whom he chanced to be attacking-an angry, dictatorial gesture, which Mr. Disraeli, after smarting under it for an hour, once said reminded him of “the tyrant of a twopenny theatre.” Now when Mr. Roebuck speaks his hands are quietly folded before him, and only at rare intervals does the right hand go forth with pointed finger to trace on the memories of the old men of the House recollections of fierce fights in which some partook who now live only as names in history.

A RAMBLING STORY.

BY MARY COWDEN CLARKE, Author of "The Iron Cousin,” “The Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines," “ The Complete

Concordance to Shakespeare,” &c.

To honoured Aunt Catherine,who taught the Author her first letters, this Story is dedicated in affectionate remembrance of those

pleasant childhood times.

Bright hints of Fortune, not yet read aright,
Lead on, like stars, through night, to coming day.—New Play.

PART I.

RAMBLING story," Lilian? Well, listen, and I will tell you one.

Some time since—I will not say how long ago—I

chanced to find myself in the thick recesses of a wood as evening was drawing on. Never was there a more gorgeous sunset. I lingered, so absorbedly watching it, that I heeded not my way, and every moment became more and more entangled among the winding paths and bowery thickets that on each side surrounded me. I knew that I must be straying farther and farther from the beaten track—the high road which skirted the wood; but I was precisely in that mood when to go on seems irresistible, to turn back impossible. Yet I had been on foot nearly the whole day, and in the open air since dawn, so that I needed rest; but still the golden light streaming through the trees, the silence of the sequestered spot, the sweet breath of the evening air, the soft fragrance of the closing flowers, all combined to lure me onwards as with a spell of deepest calm and repose. The balm to my spirit seemed to bring refreshment to my limbs, and I strolled on, and still on, from one grassy glade to another, basking in the sense of coolness, and tempered brightness, and mingled shine and shadow.

Of a sudden, the stillness was broken by a distant sound—a melodious sound—the sound of music. It was faint, but distinct; muffled, but clear. This seems a contradiction, but so it was. The notes that struck upon my ear were wonderfully marked and vibrant, yet subdued. They seemed at once remote and close at hand.

I paused to listen. I could plainly distinguish and follow the air,

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