Part 7

BY OMEGA.

A Roman matron thus addressed her son: “Why, at this time, wilt thou put armor on; No foreign foes menace thy native land, No hostile galleys seek her guarded strand— At peace with all but Gods, thou dost not hope In martial pride with Heavenly power to cope? Oh say thou goest not, as much I fear, To view yon gulph of terror and despair: It open'd at the word of angry Jove, And 'till our prayers win mercy from above, {546} A million, brave as thou, might spend in vain Their strength or lives to close its depths again. No answer, Marcus? Ah, my heart sinks down With sad presentiment of ills unknown. Why shade those ringlets, trimm'd with scrup'lous care, A brow whose gloom thy mother cannot cheer? And deck'd more gaily than a bridegroom—why Turn'st thou on me a grave and mournful eye? Remain with me, my son, but this one day— To-morrow take my blessing with thee;—say, Shall she who gave thee birth implore in vain? Unblest by me, what canst thou hope to gain?” To this alone he calmly made reply— | His gaze on her, his right hand raised on high— | “Safety for Rome——renown that ne'er shall die!” |

No kind farewell, tho' shower'd her grief like rain— He knew himself, nor dar'd to look again; But shook his plume, suppress'd the gathering tear, Turn'd his proud horse, and urg'd his fleet career. His parent gazed in that convulsive grief Which burns the heart, nor finds in tears relief— No Spartan she to bid him wear his shield, Or be borne on it from the battle field. “Oh Death,” she cried, “a desolate mother see! In mercy strike, and set my spirit free! I'll seek my son on thy unfriendly shore, My heart assures me he returns no more.”

* * * * *

Though Rome's ten thousands throng'd the Forum: there— All stood aloof in more than mortal fear, Save now and then, a veteran or a priest Approach'd the gulph, more hardy than the rest, And gaz'd on what the boldest might confound— So vast its depth, so black, and so profound. Sulphurous, stifling exhalations rose, With hollow sounds, perchance the laboring throes Of a new Ætna, whose volcanic ire Might burst ere long, and deluge Rome with fire: But when the priestly train, in pomp and state, Proclaimed aloud the stern decree of Fate, That never more should close that dread abyss, Or Rome know safety, 'till the appointed price Of peace with Heav'n were paid, by burying there All that she held most precious—then despair Gave way to patriotic hope, and soon Money and costliest goods were tossing down With eager haste, 'till Curtius rode along The precipice, and thus bespoke the throng. “Romans, withhold your gifts—the Gods behold Unmoved this reckless waste of gems and gold! Think ye the wealth of conquer'd realms can save Th' imperill'd city from this yawning grave— That Rome, whose banner to the skies unfurl'd, Proclaims the future mistress of the world, Can bring, when to her last resources driven, No purer, costlier boon to proffer Heaven Than sordid ore, which every miser craves, The bane of freedom, and the life of slaves? Be sure it needs in this abyss to throw What gold ne'er bought, and Gods alone bestow. Our guardian deities do most approve Of military courage, and the love Of native land; and if within my heart These virtues may be found, I now depart Alone to fathom the impervious gloom, And be this gulph my altar and my tomb! Oh may propitious Jove with favor see This sacrifice, and Rome remember me!” Rider and horse have reached the brink—one bound, And, like a dream, he disappeared!——no sound, No shout of triumph, or of dread, to tell His fate, who dar'd so nobly and so well. Strange horror, admiration, and regret, Spell-bound that multitude—thereon was set Silence unearthly—even as with a seal Unbroken—'till a muttering thunder-peal, Low, sad and solemn, through the empyrean rung, As tho' the Gods his funeral requiem sung— While slowly to its music closed the tomb That held the saviour and the pride of Rome. The act—its motives—its results, imprest A sacred awe on every Roman breast. In silence to their rescued homes they turn'd, And inly blest the hero while they mourn'd; They rais'd no arch, in vain triumphal pride, Recording how or wherefore Curtius died— No column trophy-crown'd: no sculptured stone; These but emblazon what were else unknown: A death whose influence might ne'er depart, Had shrin'd his heroism in every heart.

Immortal Curtius, Heaven hath deigned to hear Thy aspirations and thy dying prayer For Rome and for thy memory: it shall be A watchword to the patriot and the free 'Till Rome shall perish. Since thy deed sublime, Two thousand years have join'd the flight of Time; Earth's mightiest empires, one by one o'erthrown, Have seen thy country matchless and alone; Supreme in arts and arms. Her godlike race Of statesmen, poets, orators, who grace Th' eternal city's annals, have arisen, And shone, and set like stars—and o'er the scene Of her departing greatness, trod the throng Of unredeeming tyranny and wrong; The Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun have given Her pride and grandeur to the winds of heaven. New times, new creeds, new worlds have sprung to birth, And countless changes overswept the earth, But kindles still the generous emotion Of youth, at thy heroic self-devotion; Nor may the votaries of a purer faith, And loftier hopes, think slightly of thy death— For had thy lot in after days been thrown, Thou might'st have been a Christian, and have known The ardent zeal which, shrinking not t' engage The fangs of beasts, or man's more brutal rage, Had given thy spirit from the flames to rise, And seek a martyr's crown beyond the skies; By thy example fired in many a land Shall future Washingtons and Hampdens stand, Unbought by gold, unaw'd by despot power, Between their country and her perilous hour— And in the historic page their names shall shine In stainless lustre, unimpaired, like thine.

_Richmond, July 25._

{547}

BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.

NO. II.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

The chamber of the House of Lords is close to that of the Commons. The constant communication between these two bodies, renders it necessary that they should sit within the same palace. The recent destruction of the old Parliament House, by fire, has not separated them. Their temporary chambers are connected by temporary passages, leading from one to the other. Along them Members of the House of Commons, personally, carry their bills to the bar of the Peers; while the Peers despatch their messengers to lay their own before the representatives of the people.

The Ministers do not fail to avail themselves of this proximity. Being entitled to a seat only in that chamber to which they belong as Members of Parliament, when any struggle between themselves and the opposition is going on at the same time in both houses, they are at least enabled to exchange messages, from minute to minute, and to regulate their movements accordingly.

Thanks to this proximity, the noise and uproar of the popular branch, has alone, more than once, made the members of the more aristocratic body tremble on their seats. While the fanatical coalition of the Lords, temporal and spiritual, assailed the intrepidly defended, but badly fortified ministry of Lord Melbourne, more than once, the thundering voice of the Commons has relaxed the fury of the assailants, and encouraged the resistance of the besieged. The victorious cry of the reformers, led by Lord John Russell, often threw into confusion the conquered conservatres of Sir Robert Peel.

But it is necessary to describe this second arena of political warfare.

The chamber of the Lords is of the same form as that of the Commons—a lengthened square. The benches are generally placed in the same way; but the decorations are of a more striking appearance. Looking from the only gallery, common to the public and the reporters, you behold the throne immediately in front. This throne is not, as in France, a piece of furniture placed in the chamber every year, on the first day of the session. Here it is immovable.

Below is the celebrated woolsack, the seat of the real President of the assembly. Custom has determined that this must be a sort of sack—a bench without a back.

The apartment for the clerks is separated from the woolsack by two benches, on which two places are reserved for the Masters in Chancery, the official messengers of the chamber.

The covering and drapery of the throne, the hangings of the walls, the carpet, the screens, the benches, cushions and backs, every thing is red in this hall. Red is the aristocratic color. When the Peers, on the occasion of a visit from the King, are seated in state, with their red mantles, the whole appearance of the chamber is more dazzling than imposing. The appearance of the Commons at the bar, in their simple every day dress, presents a striking contrast. One smiles in spite of himself on reflecting that those are not the masters, who are thus sumptuously dressed in garments of purple.

This hall, in which the Lords are temporarily convened, was formerly the bed-chamber of Edward the Confessor. One can well imagine that if the four hundred and thirty nobles should take it into their heads to meet at the same time, that this room would with great difficulty contain them; but this fancy rarely ever seizes them. It is a great occasion which draws together even two hundred. The Peers enjoy a singular privilege which renders personal attendance almost unnecessary. They can vote by proxy. So that, when any one of them desires to travel on the continent, he leaves, if he choose, a power with some Peer of his own party, who exercises this delegated right of voting as often as he pleases, when he pleases, and how he pleases, except in divisions of a committee. Formerly the royal authority alone could render these powers available. Now even this is not required. At the present time, the Duke of Wellington, for instance, has his pocket full of tory votes.

The Peers who are in the habit of attending Parliament, find the present hall very small and uncomfortable. The government, which is building a new Parliament House, has consulted them on its dimensions; and it has been decided that it shall be neither very large nor very small. No one ever thought of building it on the supposition that the whole of the Peers would assemble at one time within its walls. This hypothesis has never even been suggested. The number of Peers present at the same time, has never been greater than on the question of the passage of the principal amendment attempted against parliamentary reform, the 7th of May, 1832. On that occasion there were two hundred and sixty-seven members in the house. That number was taken as the maximum: each member will be allowed three feet square. It is evident that the noble Lords are divided between the desire to be seated comfortably, and the fear of having too large an apartment, in which on some day or other a crowd of intruders may lodge themselves.

One word on the constitution of this chamber. Nothing can be more various than the elements of which it is composed. It has, first, its Peerages hereditary under the law of primogeniture—these are the English Peerages, and are beyond all comparison the most numerous; next, the Scotch and Irish Peerages, which are elective, but on different principles. The Scotch Peers are nominated only for a single Parliament; the Irish are for life. There are besides Ecclesiastical Peers, Archbishops and Bishops, English or Irish, who sit, the former on their own right, and for life, the latter by turns, every year, four by four.

In England the Peerage forms the only nobility possessed of any real title. One who is not a Peer has no legal title. The sons of Peers are not authorized to assume, in their public acts, any title of nobility. Even the eldest sons are only Lords by general consent and courtesy. The official list of the Peerage is the only official list of the nobility. The peerages are of different ranks; and among those of the same class, the most ancient has precedence. Thus there are in the first place, Dukes, then Marquises, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons. The Bishops and Archbishops, known as Lords Spiritual, are ranked according to their respective {548} dignity. The Archbishops of England have the rank of Dukes, and even precede them. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the primate and head of the church, is a sort of English Pope, and follows immediately after the Princes of the blood. He is the first Peer of the House of Lords. The Lord Chancellor (when there is one) is, in virtue of his office, the second; and the Archbishop of York is the third. The Bishops are ranked as Barons, and have precedence of them.

The Barons of Kingsale, like the Grandees of Spain, enjoy the exclusive and hereditary privilege of remaining uncovered in the presence of the King. The Peers have no other privileges, (excepting the peculiar style in which they are addressed, as “his grace,” or the “right honorable,”) which are not common to them all. Their chief privileges are those which prevent the seizure of their goods, their being arrested for debt, or judged by default in any civil action. They cannot be held to answer any criminal process but before their Peers. The reason of the inviolability of their persons in these and many other cases, is to be found in the fiction by which the Peers are all considered as counsellors of the King, and therefore secured in this perfect personal freedom, that they may be always ready to serve the necessities of the crown.

The House of Lords can only exclude a member and deprive him of the privileges of his rank, by convicting him of some capital or infamous crime. However, Blackstone mentions that, during the reign of Edward IV, George Neville, Duke of Bedford, was degraded by act of Parliament, on account of his poverty, which prevented his keeping up a style suited to his rank as a Peer. This fact is the more curious, as it is the only one of the kind, in the whole history of Parliament. Subsequently, a practice the very reverse has prevailed. So that, recently, the Earl of Huntingdon, though reduced to extreme indigence, has succeeded in establishing a contested claim to the Peerage, and the King has endowed him to enable him to sustain his rank as becomes a nobleman.

In England the aristocracy is firmly established. Each Peerage rests, at least fictitiously, on a real title, based on landed property. France and Spain, with a much larger and more ancient and illustrious nobility, have, however, never had a powerful and deeply-rooted aristocracy. If the French noblesse of the States-General had formed a political body strongly seated, properly supported, and distinctively marked, the revolution could not have overthrown them with as much ease as it did. Louis XVIII undertook, in 1814, to construct an upper house; he was too late—the materials were wanting—he built with sand on a foundation of sand.

It is now two years since M. Martinez de la Rosa also endeavored to form one in Spain. Well! in the country where every body is a _hidalgo_, he was unable to find grandees and _tilulos_ for his frail edifice. He went to work like the French political masons in 1831; he took political economists, philosophers, judges, lawyers, poets, merchants, and mixed them all up with the little of true nobility that remained. With this mortar he built his _proceres_, destined to last about as long as the new Peers of France.

It is certain that the British Peerage has no longer the solid strength it once possessed; but, though weakened and shaken, it maintains itself by the vigor of its original organization; it does not absolutely arrest the popular torrent, but it resists, even in letting it pass along. However, this flood will not always dash without injury, around the House which forms an obstacle to its course; it is fast undermining its foundations; and will soon or late overthrow the whole mass. It will have been long submerged while Westminster Abbey still mirrors itself in the Thames. Such is the lot of the works of the middle ages. Its buildings outlive its strongest institutions.

The British Peerage is not only a legislative body; it is at the same time a court of justice—not an extraordinary court for the trial of its own members or persons accused of high treason, but a permanent and regular court—a supreme court of appeals in civil matters. These two attributes are, however, as distinct as the unavoidable consequences of this double capacity will permit; good sense has corrected in practice, the theoretical absurdity of the law. Although every Peer is born a competent judge in every cause, as he is a born legislator, the House of Lords only sits as a common tribunal when it is represented by the lawyers belonging to its own body. For example, Lord Brougham or Lord Lyndhurst, both Ex-Chancellors, usually sit in the morning, and give a final judgment on civil suits brought to that court.

No divorce can be pronounced but by act of Parliament. The Peers decide on all process for separation. As in these cases the only question is about facts which no legal knowledge is required to comprehend, they are decided indifferently by the Law-Peers, or any others present at the commencement of the political session. So the House of Lords is at the same time a court and a legislative chamber; a barbarous amalgam.

If the strict rules of ceremony were preserved, the Peers should sit according to their ranks; that is to say, Dukes on the first benches, Marquisses on the second, and the Barons on the third. This order is, however, not observed. They range themselves like the Commons, according to the political party to which they belong, Barons, Earls, Dukes or Marquisses indiscriminately. During the session just closed, the ministry of the whigs and their friends, occupied the seats to the right of the woolsack; the opposition of the tories, those on the left.

We use the terms “whigs” and “tories,” for these words are most suitable to the House of Lords. The whole aristocracy being centered in that House, the Peers only represent themselves; they do not express the will of such or such a party, but their own will. Lord Durham and Lord Brougham, both radicals, are anomalies and differ entirely from their fellows.

The political classification of the House of Lords, is more simple and easy than that of the Commons. There is at present, as during the last century, in the Upper House, two different shades of aristocracy, which fiercely contend for power and the emoluments of office; the _tories_, consistent at least with their anti-liberal principles, the triumph of which, if such triumph could be accomplished peacefully and without a revolution, would be the only safety for the Peerage; the _whigs_, very much embarrassed by their pretended popular opinions, of the sincerity of which proofs by acts and not by words, are begun to be required.

Numerically these two divisions are far from being {549} equal. Counting consciences, you would have ten tories for one whig. However, in 1832 the whig minority forced the tories to capitulate; and, since that time assisted by the pressure from without, it has more than once dictated the law to its adversaries. But the period is rapidly approaching when the true majority will attempt to break the yoke, perceiving that concessions can no longer avail to secure its safety. It would be at least as becoming to seize the sword, and fall in defending its ramparts, as to wait seated on its curule chairs, the political death which threatens it.

The rules and customs of the two chambers in some respects resemble, and in others differ from each other.

In the House of Lords the members remain covered as in the Commons; and in the former chamber more etiquette is preserved. It is more rare to see their Lordships convert their benches into beds, or imitate with their legs the signs of a telegraph. The murmurs of the House are more subdued and civilized, the disapprobations expressed with more courtesy; the arena of discussion generally presents less animating and striking scenes; there is more concession, and more unity. You witness none of that strife of common-places which exasperate to so great a degree the patience and the politeness of the Lower House. There, for one eloquent harangue, you will have to submit to ten stupid ones, which serve no other end than to lengthen and injure the discussion. In the Lords able speakers are not so common, and do not abuse to so great a degree their right of speaking. It is true that the Peerage is but a groupe, but a little intrenched garrison; and you should not expect either reserve, or discretion, or discipline, in such a multitude as the Commons; an impatient army bivouacing whole nights on the benches, and where each soldier wishes to be a conqueror.

TO A TORTOISE-SHELL COMB.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Being an humble imitation of the style of some modern poets, by the prism of whose fancy the most common objects are invested with the hues of poesy, even as the sunbeam turneth to diamonds the dews which heedless night hath flung over the earth.

There is more in thy history than meets The eye of cold observance. Had'st thou words To speak imprisoned secrets, how would all Thy silent, chiselled labyrinths resound With thought transcending eloquence! Deep things— The passionate breathings of a hidden voice, And young and fond imaginings that swell The fountains of a yet untroubled soul, Ere to the world its flowings have gone forth— Thou hast been witness to. Thou hast reposed, Pressed by a pearly hand, upon a brow Stainless and lofty; and thou hast been worn When the full tide of youth and loveliness Coursed wildly through her heart, o'erlooking all Her regal swanlike grace; moved when she moved, In blest obedience—perchance hast stooped To watch the speakings of her mantling cheek, And felt the haughtiest tossings of a head Whose classic beauty might a Phidias shame.

And when the hour of twilight musings came And thy fair mistress in the leafy bower, Or by the curtained casement, lay entranced In all the dreamy luxury of thought, When the soft odors of the sleeping flowers Stole forth on dewy wing to visit her, And bathe her brow in sweetness—when she looked To the far, quiet stars, that glanced abroad In silent, glorious beauty—thou hast strayed Carelessly through the long fair locks that lay Like a sun-kindled cloud across her neck: Lifting each half unconscious tress in pride, Fondly and lingeringly entwining it, As loth to quit thy lovely resting place.

And thou art—aye, sweet shell—more favored far To owe thy polish to her gentle touch, Than the most honored worshipper who kneels Before her shrine: than he who holds thee now Betwixt a reverential thumb and finger, Absorbed in admiration of thy worth.

_New York, 1836._

INFLUENCE OF NAMES.

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”—_Shakspeare._