ich he gave of his political opinions, there were that good
sense and power of expression, which indicate a high order of
eloquence--above all, there was in his countenance, and in his
words, that consciousness of unsullied worth and integrity,
the moral effects of which no flights of genius and no zeal of
party can supply. When he spoke of responsibility and its
duties, it was responsibility to God as well as to man: when
he spoke of the welfare of the people and of the country,
there was not a human being, private friend or political
opponent, (enemies he had none,) who could not have borne
witness, that each day of his life was spent in unwearied
efforts for the good of others; and, therefore, he had a right
to speak of God, for he served Him; of His church, for he
honoured it; of his country, for he loved it; of virtue, for
he practised it; of character, for his was unblemished; of
honour, for his was unstained; and among all that assembled
multitude, there was not one whose hand could point to a word
or deed of his, that had not made his light to shine before
men, and glorified his Father in Heaven, or whose voice could
have named his name as connected with aught of shame or
dishonour.

"Speak on, Edward, speak on, and let all who hear you and see
you to-day, feel for an instant what I spend my life in
feeling, that if many have done virtuously, you excel them
all."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Ay, that's fine speaking for the husband of she as killed the
child, and got the property!"

Was that a voice from the lowest depths of hell? Had I heard
those words--and did I not fall down upon my face, and call to
the mountains to fall on me, and to the hills to cover me? No;
I sat on and grasped Henry's hand, and saw his deadly pale
face turned to the gallery over our heads; and I heard a
scuffle above, and a row beginning, and a sound of voices like
the hoarse murmur of the sea when the waves are rising; then
Edward's voice ceased, and loud deafening cheers rang through
the building; and Henry dragged me through the crowd; and
among that world of faces, and in that rushing noise, and in
that hurrying to and fro, I felt as if I must eternally
wander, and hear again and again those words which had curdled
my blood, and sickened my heart.

"Oh, no!" I cried, as Henry carried me to the carriage, and
placed me by Alice's side, "Oh, no!" I cried, regardless of
her presence, and almost wild with despair, "now, my