ng.

"It is all over!" he said; "and I am glad she was not here."

I advanced hurriedly forward, pushed them aside, and stood by the bed.
Yes, that long, quiet sleep had, indeed, been a forerunner of life,--the
true life! All was truly over,--the long years of suffering, the blessed
years of loving care, the combat and the struggle; and on the
battle-field rested the dread shadows of Night and Death!

And I? I sank on the poor body-shell with one low, long wail, and Nature
kindly extended over me her blessed veil of forgetfulness.

RICHARD COBDEN.

On the third day of April last a most impressive and unusual scene was
witnessed in the English House of Commons. For some time before the hour
for sitting, the members had gathered about the halls and lobbies in
whispering groups. One of its leading members had passed away, and there
was a consultation as to whether the House should move an adjournment.
It is not the custom of the House of Commons to adjourn in case of the
death of one of its members, unless that member is an officer of the
Government or of extraordinary prominence. The last person for whom it
had adjourned was Sir G. Cornwall Lewis. It was considered in the
present case that there were some members whose hostility to the
departed would not stop at the grave, and that the harmony which alone
would make an adjournment graceful as a tribute would be unattainable;
so it was decided that the motion should not be made. When the great,
deep-toned Westminster clock struck four, the members took their seats.
Then slowly entered the ministers, with Lord Palmerston at their head;
and for some moments sitting there with their hats on, one might have
supposed it a silent meeting of Friends. At this moment all eyes were
turned to the door as one entered who is a Friend indeed: heavily, with
head bowed under his terrible sorrow, John Bright walked to his place,
by the side of which was a vacancy never to be filled. Lord Palmerston,
on rising, was received with a cheer which rang through the hall like a
wailing cry, and was followed by a deep hush. As the white-haired old
man, who had seen the leading men of more than two generations fall at
his side, began to speak of the "great loss" which the House and the
nation had suffered, his voice quivered, and recovered itself only when
it sank to a low tone that was deeply pathetic. And when, having
recounted the instances in which Richard Cobden, with his "great
am