regulation, commonly called "the one-hour rule." Upon this principle,
whenever a question of great interest comes up, each member is allotted
one hour by the Speaker's watch--as much less as he pleases, but no more
on any consideration. Of course it occasionally happens that a man who
has something to say, is not able to say it effectively within the hour;
but then, for one such, there are at least a dozen who would otherwise
talk for a week without saying any thing at all. Upon the whole,
therefore, this same one-hour rule is deserving of all praise--the time
of the country is saved by it, the sufferings of the more sensible
members are abbreviated, while the dunces, to do them justice, make the
most of their limited opportunities. Who knows, but that the peace of
the world may be owing to it? For as there are about 230
representatives, we should have had, but for it, just as many masterly
demonstrations of the title of the Republic to the whole of Oregon--and
something more. In such a cause, they would make nothing of beginning
with the creation of the world, and ending with the last protocol of Mr
Buchanan! Decidedly, but for "the one-hour rule" we Britishers should
have been "everlastingly used up--and no two ways about it." Poor old
Adams actually did begin his Oregon speech with the first chapter of
Genesis. The title-deeds of the Republic, he said, were to be found in
the words, "Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth!" Happily,
the fatal hammer of the Speaker put down the venerable antediluvian,
before he got to the end of the chapter.

In the Senate, on the other hand, which is a less numerous, and somewhat
more select body, things still go on in the old-fashioned way. There,
when a member has once caught the Speaker's eye, his fortune is made for
the day--perhaps for the week. Accordingly, he takes things easy from
the very first--kicks his spittoon to a convenient angle, offers a
libation of cold water to his parched entrails, and begins. When he
leaves off, is another matter altogether--but not generally till he has
gone through the round of human knowledge, explored the past, touched
lightly upon the present, and cast a piercing glance into the darkness
of the future. Soon after three, the Senate adjourns for dinner, and the
orator of the day goes to his pudding with the rest, happy in the
reflection that he has done his duty by his country, and will do it
again on the morrow. We have somewhere rea