solitary widow. Yet, did she despair? Did she sit down and weep, or read a novel, or wring her hands? No! she went to the cupboard. And here observe that she went to the cupboard. She did not hop, or skip, or run, or jump, or use any other peripatetic artifice; she solely and merely went to the cupboard.

"We have seen that she was old and lonely, and we now further see that she was poor. For, mark, the words are 'the cupboard.' Not 'one of the cupboards,' or the 'right-hand cupboard,' or the 'lefthand cupboard,' or the one above or the one below, or the one under the floor; but just the cupboard—the one humble little cupboard the poor widow possessed. And why did she go to the cupboard? Was it to bring forth golden goblets, or glittering, precious stones, or costly apparel, or feasts, or any other attributes of wealth? It was to get her poor dog a bone! Not only was the widow poor, but her dog, the sole prop of her age, was poor too. We can imagine the scene. The poor dog crouching in the corner, looking wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going to that cupboard-in hope, in expectation, may be-to open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not half open or ajar—to open it for that poor dog.

"But when she got there the cupboard was bare,

And so the poor dog had none.'

"When she got there.' You see, dear brethren, what perseverance is. You see the beauty of persistence in doing right. She got there. There were no turnings and twistings, no slippings and slidings, no leaning to the right or faltering to the left. With glorious simplicity we are told she got there.

"And how was her noble effort rewarded?

"The cupboard was bare.' It was bare! There were to be found neither oranges, nor cheese-cakes, nor penny buns, nor gingerbread, nor crackers, nor nuts, nor lucifer-matches. The cupboard was bare! There was but one, only one solitary cupboard in the whole of that cottage, and that one-the sole hope of the widow, and the glorious load-star of the poor dog-was bare! Had there been a leg of mutton, a loin of lamb, a fillet of veal, even an 'ice' from Gatti's, the case would have been different, the incident would have been otherwise. But it was bare, my brethren, bare as a bald head, bare as an infant born without a caul.

"Many of you will probably say, with all the pride of worldly sophistry, 'The widow, no doubt, went out and bought a dog-biscuit.' Ah, no! Far removed from these earthly ideas, these mundane desires, poor Mother Hubbard, the widow, whom many thoughtless

worldlings would despise, in that she owned only one cupboard, perceived-or I might even say saw-at once the relentless logic of the situation, and yielded to it with all the heroism of that nature which had enabled her, without deviation, to reach the barren cupboard. She did not attempt, like the stiff-necked scoffers of this generation, to war against the inevitable; she did not try, like the so-called men of science, to explain what she did not understand. She said nothing. The poor dog had none!' And then at this point our information ceases. But do we not know sufficient?

we not cognizant of enough?

Are

"Who would dare to pierce the veil that shrouds the ulterior fate of Old Mother Hubbard, the poor dog, the cupboard, or the bone that was not there? Must we imagine her still standing at the open cupboard-door; depict to ourselves the dog still dropping his disappointed tail upon the floor, the sought-for bone still remaining somewhere else? Ah! no, my dear brethren, we are not so permitted to attempt to read the future. Suffice it for us to glean from this beautiful story its many lessons; suffice it for us to apply them, to study them as far as in us lies, and bearing in mind the natural frailty of our nature, to avoid being widows; to shun the patronymic of Hubbard; to have, if our means afford it, more than one cupboard in the house, and to keep stores in them all. And, O dear friends! keeping in recollection what we have learned this day, let us avoid keeping dogs that are fond of bones. But, brethren, if we do, if Fate has ordained that we should do any of these things, let us then go, as Mother Hubbard did, straight, without curveting or prancing, to our cupboard, empty though it be-let us, like her, accept the inevitable with calm steadfastness; and should we, like her, ever be left with a hungry dog and an empty cupboard, may future chroniclers be able to write also of us in the beautiful words of our text'And so the poor dog had none.””—Anon.

(238.) SPEECH ON REFORM.

Right Hon. William Ewart Gladstone, eminent statesman, b. 1809. Son of a Liverpool merchant, educated at Eton and Christchurch. In 1832 returned to House of Commons as member for Newark in the Conservative interest. In 1834 became under-secretary for colonial affairs; in 1846 he was appointed secretary of state for the colonies; in 1852 he seceded from the Conservative party; became chancellor of the exchequer under the Aberdeen ministry, and subsequently prime minister.

May I say to hon. gentlemen opposite, as some of them have addressed advice to gentlemen on this side of the house, "Will you not consider, before you embark in this new crusade, whether the results

of the others in which you have engaged have been so satisfactory." Great battles you have fought, and fought them manfully. The battle of maintaining civil disabilities on account of religious belief, the battle of resisting the first Reform Act, the battle of Protection,— all these battles have been fought by the great party that I see opposite; and, as to some of them, I admit my own share of the responsibility. But have their results been such as that you should be disposed to renew these conflicts again? Certainly those who sit on this side have no reason or title to find fault. The effect of your course has been to give them for five out of six, or for six out of seven years, the conduct and management of public affairs. The effect has been to lower, to reduce, and contract your just influence in the country, and to abridge your share in the administration of the government. It is good for the public interest that you should be strong; but if you are to be strong, you can only be so by showing, as well as the kindness and the personal generosity which I am sure you feel towards the people, a public trust and confidence in them. What I now say can hardly be said with an evil motive. But, sir, we are assailed; this bill is in a state of crisis and of peril, and the government along with it. We stand or fall with it, as has been declared by my noble friend. We stand with it now; we may fall with it a short time hence, but if we do we shall rise with it hereafter. I shall not attempt to measure with precision the forces that are to be arrayed in the coming struggle. Perhaps the great division of to-night is not the last that must take place in the struggle. You may possibly succeed at some point of the contest. You may drive us from our seats. You may bury the bill that we have introduced; but for its epitaph we will write upon its gravestone this line, with certain confidence in its fulfilment—

"Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor."

You cannot fight against the future. Time is on our side. The great social forces which move on in their might and majesty, and which the tumult of our debates does not for a moment impede or disturb those great social forces are against you; they are marshalled on our side; and the banner which we now carry, though, perhaps, at some moment it may droop over our sinking heads, yet it soon again will float in the eye of heaven, and it will be borne by the firm hands of the united people of the three kingdoms, perhaps not to an easy, but to a certain and to a not distant victory.

(239.) SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

[Sir Peter Teazle is a kindly-natured but somewhat formal old baronet, who has married a young country coquette who entertains a liking for a ward of her husband, but who is saved from disgrace by overhearing her husband's generous feelings towards her.]

Two speakers: SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE.

Sir P. When an old bachelor marries a young wife what is he to expect? "Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men- -and I have been the most miserable dog ever since! We tiffed a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution—a girl bred wholly in the country, who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a race-ball. Yet now she plays her part in all the extravagant fopperies of the fashion and the town, with as ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humours; yet the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and what's more, I will, too.

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to have no influence, no authority?

Lady T. Authority! no, to be sure;-if you wanted authority over me you should have adopted me, and not married me. I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough!-ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady T. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a fête champêtre at Christmas. But you forget what your situation was when I married you.

Lady T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you. O, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and-comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog!

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your coach—vis-à-vis—and three powdered footmen before your chair; and in the summer a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind the butler, on a dock'd coach-horse.

Lady T. No-I swear I never did that: I deny the butler and the coach-horse.

Sir P. You did! He was blind of one eye, and his name was Dobbin. This, madam, was your situation; and what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank; in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady T. Well, then,—and there is but one thing more you can make me, to add to the obligation, and that is—————

Sir P. My widow, I suppose?

Lady T. Hem! hem!

Sir P. I thank you, madam—but don't flatter yourself; for though your ill-conduct may disturb my peace, it shall never break my heart, I promise you. However, I am equally obliged to you for the hint.

Lady T. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?

Sir P. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me?

Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion? Sir P. The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashion before you married me?

Lady T. For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.

Sir P. Ay—there again—taste. Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

Lady T. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter;-and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. Do be good-humoured now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?

Sir P. Two hundred pounds! What, ain't I to be in a goodhumour without paying for it? But speak to me thus, and i'faith there's nothing I could refuse you; you shall no longer reproach me