to exhibit independence of character. Again, when the vote of the House defeated his efforts on behalf of Mr. Bradlaugh, he at once abdicated the responsibilities of leadership, and demanded that Sir Stafford Northcote should assume them. If he finds himself in a strait, instead of facing the position as a statesman would do, he must have legislation to smooth

the way. The Bradlaugh difficulty-which need never have been a difficulty at all in a House composed mainly of gentlemen, if the leader had shown himself possessed of moral courage-is to be removed by legislation. In the same way we must have legislation to deal with obstruction, because Mr. Gladstone either has not the moral firmness, or will not exercise it, in putting an end to vexatious interruption to the progress of public business. The day is not long past when a leader of the House would have felt a natural sense of shame in always appealing to Parliament for new powers to aid him in discharging his duties. The House of Commons is not such a recent institution that it has not had ample experience of obstruction, and that it does not possess in its forms and precedents sufficient powers of dealing with any attempts to disturb the progress of legislation. Before the nation can allow an alteration in rules of debate, which hitherto under efficient management have maintained order while they guaranteed freedom of speech, it will have to be assured that Parliament is not being asked to bolster up a leadership that either will not, or cannot, put down abuses by the personal influence of the House.

Gladstonianism, therefore, permeated Parliament with its own spirit of empiricism, substituting

an affectation of "earnestness" for sound patriotism,-specious pleas of

humanity and benevolence for that prudence which should make us safeguard our own interests while we do justly by our neighbours,— and heroic remedies for moderate measures. It has embarked the Houses in a course of sensational legislation which can only end in disaster to the nation, unless the Ministry is the first to suffer shipwreck. It has taught the assemblies, to which the honour of the country is confided, to look with indifference upon humiliation, and to pocket affronts as the simplest way of saving annoyance. It has inaugurated a régime of political morality lower than England ever witnessed when Parliament was packed with placemen, and Ministers did not scruple to take bribes for their patriotism, and public justice was loudly asserted in our councils, even though they were only used as a veil to cover practices of which those who followed them had the grace to be ashamed.

But we must not overlook the influence which the Liberal ascendancy has exercised upon the political feelings of society in general. It is not a far retrospect to the days when an Englishman took a pride in being an Englishman. His national prejudices may have been narrow, but they were honest, and contributed to form a healthy spirit of patriotism, which never failed to come stoutly to the front when the national honour was at stake. Our new instructors first told us that this sentiment of national honour was a dangerous one-that it led to Chauvinism, to international offences, and to consequent wars; and then, as if doubtful of the efficacy of their teaching, they got rid of the national honour as rapidly as they could, in case it might prove a dangerous temptation to minds which had not fully mastered the lessons of Liberalism. This feeling

of national honour, of which we have happily, according to Liberal ideas, got rid, was the property of no party, but was cherished by the Whig as well as by the Tory. It is not so long ago, we felt rather proud that despots in the uttermost parts of civilisation trembled at the name of Palmerston; and that a claim to British nationality carried with it in a foreign country all the weight of the old boast, "Civis Romanus sum." But if the teaching of Liberalism be right, all this was very wrong; and instead of honouring, we ought to execrate the men who held the flag of Britain in the forefront of European politics. We are taught that we must reprobate any feeling of British prestige in which our immediate ancestors so greatly gloried. We have found a new name for patriotism, which now appears as "Jingoism" in the Gladstonian vocabulary. All the lofty national qualities of which we were wont to boast-the honour of our country, the bravery of our troops, our championship of freedom, and our hostility to oppression-must all be sunk in this utilitarian age. Mr. Gladstone's view of these virtues is identical with that of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant "Thae timents," says the Scotch knight, "thae sentiments, sir, might ha'e dune verra weel wi' the auncient Romans, but they're d-d unfit for the modern Britons." All the elements which made the old British national life robust and healthy are denied, and national enthusiasm is directed to vent itself on shifty policy put forward on sham pretences. We cannot think that this is healthy political training, even for "teeming thousands;" and we may justly dread the effects which the teaching will produce, should it ever come to be put in practice.

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Either the historical character of the British people is one of which

we in our enlightenment ought to be ashamed, and the institutions of the country are an anomaly in a civilised and free State, or the spirit of Gladstonianism is doing a mischievous work, pulling down where it cannot build, and rooting up without planting. We have no superstitious reverence for antiquity; we frankly admit that no Government can rule in Britain that does not bend to the spirit of progress; but it is not every Government that can read the requirements of progress aright. Gladstonianism, we do not hesitate to say, has read them wrong. If there is one pre-eminent social influence that progress has asserted in Britain, it has been the clear definition of the rights and responsibilities of the various classes that make up the community of the nation. To co-ordinate these, and to bind up the whole in a harmonious and powerful unit, would be the triumph of progressive statesmanship. Gladstonianism has sought to set class against class, and class interest against class interest. It began by pitting commerce against agriculture; it now thrives by setting the masses, the "teeming thousands," against the middle and upper classes, and the tenant against his landlord; it will end, if need be, by setting labour and capital by the ears. It must not be supposed that we are sneering at the masses. Their position is as distinct under the British constitution, and their rights are as dear to every true Englishman as are those of the peerage. But as we could not consent to have the country governed by the House of Lords, so we can have no wish that political power should become the monopoly of the "teeming thousands." Yet this is the bait that Gladstonianism holds out. The last elections were carried by a democratic upheaval; and the only limitations that Mr.

Gladstone recognises to his power as a dictator is the necessity of keeping the democracy in temper. To do this he feeds it with oily phrases, and persuades it that he is serving its views when he is only giving effect to his own. He claims that his commission from the masses covers any measures that he may think fit to put forward, as when, again and again, he asserted that the country had declared in favour of the Irish Land Bill,-a Bill upon which the opinion of the constituencies was never consulted.

But if Gladstonianism is dangerous and demoralising to the nation at large, its insane and pretentious character is not less dangerous to its own stability. The Premier's conviction of his own infallibility is constantly strengthened by the assurances of his sycophants. Sir Stafford Northcote, at Newcastle the other day, very aptly quoted, apropos of Mr. Gladstone and his flatterers, the well-known French story, in which, when a great nobleman was about to open his mouth, his flatterers were ever ready to call out "Monsieur aura raison," and to hardly wait until he had finished his remark before they broke in with "Monsieur a raison." Yet these political parasites, whether they be parliamentary place-hunters, caucusleaders, or "teeming thousands," are always the first to desert a statesman in difficulties. It is neither the man nor his measures, but his place and his popularity that secure their plaudits. Mr. Gladstone has more than once experienced the fickleness of public favour; and his fall has always been great in proportion to the elevation which he occupied in the estimation of the populace. On this occasion, when the crisis does come, he will whelm all who may adhere to him at the time in the ruins of his dictatorship; and as he has provided only a policy

for himself, and not for his party, it will find itself on his fall in even a more forlorn condition than it was in when Lord Hartington took up the leadership which Mr. Gladstone had flung away in a pet.

While a sickening cant is thus maintaining an ascendancy over the political views of the majority, and the executive policy of Britain is being conducted in a spirit of humbug that would shame the principles of a pedlar, a manly straightforward speech like that of Lord Salisbury at Newcastle affords a rallying-point for all who are sick of shams and insincerity. Let Lord Salisbury's principles be right or wrong, no one will impugn the genuineness of his convictions. the present day we might almost be content to sink distinctions of party for honesty of utterance and firmness of purpose. The country is beginning to see that it wants the Laureate's

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"Whatever they call him, what care I? One still strong man in a blatant land, Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, one Who can rule and dare not lie."

Party considerations are of less consequence to every Englishman than the honour of his country and the credit of its institutions. Gladstonianism has sacrificed the one in Asia and in Africa, and has depreciated the other in the eyes of all our Continental neighbours.. But for our well-founded expectation that it is merely a passing phase, a temporary disease of the body politic, which the British system has vitality enough to overcome, the outlook would be a gloomy one. If the spirit and teachings of Gladstonianism were to take a permanent hold upon the public, we might well look with the deepest anxiety to their effects, both in the present and in the future:

"Etas parentum, pejor avis, tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem."

THE gloom of a December afternoon was deepening into night, and the grey shadows of twilight rendered still more dim and dreary the dismal court-house of the Palais de Justice at S. Snow had not yet fallen, but a raw damp fog wrapped the city in its chilly winding sheet. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, however, the atmosphere of the court was hot to suffocation, and almost stifling with bad air; for since early morning every bench had been filled, every corner thronged, by an cager and expectant crowd. A trial of exceptional interest was taking place-a trial for life or death; and though at this late hour the many pallid faces around showed how severely the spectators had suffered from heat and fatigue, not one amongst them would leave his or her place, for the supreme moment was near-the moment when would be decided whether a fellow-creature would be restored to freedom and to life, or doomed to die a violent and a shameful death.

That most miserable fellow-creature was a woman, and a woman young and good-looking. Many of those who had been watching her throughout this long and terrible day had known her by sight; some had even pitied her, and still perhaps felt compassion for the wretched creature, who hour after hour had listened with dull apathy to the recital of her cruel and dreadful crime; for this girl, so young and so fair to look upon, was being tried for her life for murder-for murder, under circumstances, as the

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public prosecutor declared, of peculiar atrocity. The victim had been stabbed when sleeping, and after having shown especial kindness to his murderess. The girl did not deny her crime, but vehemently asserted that it had been unpremeditated. The man, she said, had insulted her by some rude expressions, and she became angry. then laughed at her rage, until her anger was roused to fury. She entreated him to forbear, and warned him that she "saw red." * mocked at her threats, until at length, irritated beyond endurance, she turned suddenly and struck at him with a knife, with which she had been cutting flowers and boughs. No sooner had the first blow been dealt, than, maddened by the sight of the blood her own hand had spilt, terrified and yet furious, she struck again and again. Like some wild animal, rendered ferocious by rage and fear, this wretched creature destroyed that which she most loved-yes, most loved,-for (and here she broke down into bitter weeping) this poor boy had been the only human being who had ever been really kind to her.

Alas! this story, whether true or false, was not believed, for in no respect was it borne out by the evidence. On the contrary, everything tended to show that the crime had been the result of cruel and determined premeditation. The girl was in debt. She had quarrelled with the woman of the house where she lodged, and wished to go from it, but could not, on account of this debt; and she had said to one of

her companions that money she must and would have at any cost, for she was determined to leave

The knife, a very large and dangerous weapon, had been bought by the prisoner only the day before the murder was committed; and so sharp and formidable was it, that the shopman had asked for what purpose it was required; and the girl had answered, somewhat crossly, that she was going to be a cook, and should need it for cutting meat. This statement was proved to be false. Then, not only money, but several articles belonging to the murdered man were found in the prisoner's possession, and the deepest stab, supposed to have been the first, was in the poor fellow's back. The body had not been discovered until the morning after the deed had been committed, and in the meantime the girl had returned home and shut herself up in her room, refusing supper, or to allow any one to enter. When arrested, she at first denied having been with her victim, but subsequently admitted the fact-many persons having testified to having seen the couple walking in the fields together. None, however, corroborated her statement that a quarrel had taken place; neither sounds of quarrelling nor angry words had been heard.

The public prosecutor pressed the case against the accused with more than ordinary severity; for during the last few months many instances of robbery, disappearance, and even of suspicious death had occurred amongst the soldiers belonging to the regiments quartered at S

and it was believed that there existed an organised gang of women in that town who aided and abetted, even if they did not actually commit, the crimes imputed to them. The girl now on her trial was

well known to the police-agents. Daring, headstrong, violent in temper, unusually handsome and attractive, she had much influence amongst her companions; and although up to the present time she had succeeded in eluding justice, there was but little doubt that during her short life she had repeatedly rendered herself liable to the stern chastisement of the law. Should the jury, therefore, return a verdict of guilty in this case, in all probability the plea of extenuating circumstances would not be admitted. The extreme penalty would be demanded and enforced that of death by the guillotine.

The trial had dragged on its weary length the whole day. The host of witnesses had been examined. The public prosecutor and the counsel for the prisoner had both made long and exhaustive speeches. The president had summed up, and had left the court; the jury had retired to deliberate; the prisoner had been removed to an adjoining cell; and then, in the semi-darkness of the crowded hall, was heard that strange subdued noise, that murmur which yet is silence, those sounds without words, that betoken the presence of an absorbed and anxious multitude.

From time to time a spectator more curious than his neighbours would rise from his seat and look down hastily, and not unfrequently with a shudder, upon some dreadful articles lying on a table in the middle of the court. Here were arranged in ghastly array what the French call "Les pièces à conviction." A long grey coat, a shirt, a little purse, a knife,-poor common articles; but, deeply dyed as they were with the same dark and terrible stains, they had become, though silent, the stern and aweinspiring witnesses of crime.

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