receive its victim, all animosities are buried with the departed. The voice of detraction is silenced-the clamour, of party is hushed. But the scene at Westminster last night showed that when a man like Richard Cobden dies, when a pure and kingly spirit like his passes from amongst us, a far deeper sentiment is evoked than that which is commonly excited by the presence of the destroyer. Feelings of reverence for a great man, of love for exalted worth, of admiration for pre-eminent public services, mingle with the awe which death always inspires. So it was, that when Lord Palmerston rose to speak, an intensely solemn feeling pervaded the Senate Chamber, and a breathless attention was given to every word which fell from his lips. The Premier performed his mournful task, with the spirit and in the language of a man who was pronouncing no idle panegyric. In words at once graceful and earnest, he alluded to the event which has excited such profound sorrow. There had been important—we might even say vital-differences of opinion between him and the illustrious deceased; but, as became the leader of the House and a statesman of generous mind, he touched lightly on these, and gave exclusive prominence to the admirable qualities of Mr. Cobden's character, and to those great deeds of his life which form so conspicuous and brilliant a page of his country's history. He referred to his honesty of purpose, his indomitable energy of will, his Demosthenic eloquence. He attributed to him ambition, but rightly said it was an ambition which only aspired to be useful to his country. His lordship dilated upon the disinterestedness of his conduct a subject upon which he was able to dwell with peculiar and appropriate emphasis. For Lord Palmerston could speak of this marked characteristic of Mr. Cobden's mind, from a perhaps unprecedented personal experience. It had first been his lot to invite the Member for Rochdale to occupy a seat in the Cabinet; and at a later period, when the commercial treaty with France was successfully negotiated, to offer him those rewards which it would have been grateful for the Crown to bestow. But both these opportunities of distinction were declined, as Lord Palmerston frankly admitted, from a sense of public duty. It was, again to quote his lordship's phrase, this "disinterestedness" of character which, while adding brightness to Mr. Cobden's fame, largely increased his moral influence when he was living, and will make his career the more useful to distant generations.

Mr. Disraeli, amid sympathetic cheers, as freely given by his own followers as by the Ministerial party, added his testimony to that of the Nestor of debate. A man of his temperament and ability could well appreciate Mr. Cobden's intellectual and statesmanlike capacity, his grasp of mind, his temperateness of expression, his persuasiveness of speech, his powers of logical analysis and argument. But Mr. Disraeli rose to the full dignity of his theme when, after remarking upon the great and mournful losses which the present parliament has sustained, by the death of many of its most distinguished members, he said that there were some of them, who, though not present, were still members of that House, were independent of dissolutions, of the caprices of constituencies, and even of the course of time; and that to this exceptional and illustrious class Mr. Cobden belonged. This is the consolation which all who mourn for the lamented statesman must experience. Although dead he yet speaketh. He lives in his spoken and written words; in his great works; in those undying virtues, which are more imperishable than marble or granite. It may be truthfully affirmed that such men only begin to live when they pass from this world's stage-that posterity, whose judgment is unclouded by prejudice or passion, will benefit by their example, and give effect to all that is wise and just in their teachings. The House of Commons applauded to the echo the lofty tribute which Mr. Disraeli paid to Mr. Cobden, when he asserted that he was the greatest political character the pure middle class of this country has yet produced. They shared in Mr. Bright's emotion when he touchingly alluded to his presence at that closing scene, when "the manliest and gentlest spirit that ever quitted or tenanted a human form departed this life." But only future generations can rightly measure the loss we have sustained by Mr. Cobden's untimely death, or adequately estimate the value of the services it has been his privilege to render to his country and to mankind. It is for the living who cherish his memory and believe in the principles to which he devoted his life, to testify their fidelity to both, by emulating his unselfish zeal and patriotism, and by resting politics, as he did, upon the broad foundations of truth and Christian morality.

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar! The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,—

For Brutus is an honourable man,

So are they all, all honourable men,—
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see, that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.

Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And sure he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me,
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

O masters! if I were disposed to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,-
I found it in his closet,-'tis his will;
Let but the commons hear this testament,

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy

Unto their issue.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made;
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it!-
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no.
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:

Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him; then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
Oh, now you weep! and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity, these are gracious drops.

Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? look you here!
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, by traitors.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny:

They that have done this deed are honourable.
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not,
That made them do it ;—they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;

I am no orator, as Brutus is,

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

That love my friend; and that they know full well

That give me public leave to speak of him;
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action nor utt'rance, nor the power of speech
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on.

I tell you that which you yourselves do know;

Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,