And on the thread of Time long years may slip, MARY W. JANVRIN. CXLIX.-DEATH OF LORD CHATHAM. On the 7th of April, 1778, Lord Chatham made his appearance, for the last time, in the House of Lords. It is a day memorable for the occurrence of one of the most affecting scenes ever witnessed in Parliament a day when the great master of modern oratory was overwhelmed by the effort of his own powerful eloquence. Lord Chatham was ignorant of the real state of feeling in America. He imagined that the colonies might be brought back to their former allegiance to the British government. He did not wish to see the extensive dominion of old England rent in twain, and the independence of America recognised. He could not endure these thoughts. He therefore heard, "with unspeakable concern," that the Duke of Richmond intended, on the 7th of April, to move an address to the king, advising him to effect a conciliation with America, involving her independence. Such a measure he thought was disastrous and ruinous to the prosperity and happiness of England. He determined to take a bold stand against it, and accordingly was carried to the House of Lords, to raise his voice against the dismemberment of the empire. He was led into the House of Peers by his son, the Honorable William Pitt, and his son-in-law Lord Mahon. He was dressed in a rich suit of black velvet, and covered up to the knees in flannel. Within his large wig little more of his countenance was seen than his aquiline nose, and his penetrating eye, which retained all its native fire. He looked like a dying man, yet never was seen a figure of more dignity. He appeared like a being of a superior species. The Lords stood up and made a lane for him to pass to his seat, while, with a gracefulness of deportment for which he was so eminently distinguished, he bowed to them as he proceeded. Ilaving taken his seat, he listened with profound attention to the Duke of Richmond's "speech." When Lord Weymouth had finished his reply in behalf of the ministry, Lord Chatham rose with slowness and great difficulty, and delivered the following speech. "Supported by his two relations, he lifted his hand from the crutch on which he leaned, raised it up, and, casting his eyes toward heaven, commenced as follows:" "I THANK God that I have been enabled to come here to-day-to perform my duty, and speak on a subject which is so deeply impressed on my mind. I am old and infirm. I have one foot-more than one foot-in the grave. I have risen from my bed to stand up in the cause of my country-perhaps never again to speak in this house." “The reverence, the attention, the stillness of the House," said an eye-witness, were here most affecting: had any one dropped a handkerchief, the noise would have been heard." 66 "As he proceeded, Lord Chatham spoke at first in a low tone, with all the weakness of one who is laboring under severe indisposition. Gradually, however, as he warmed with the subject, his voice became louder and more distinct, his intonations grew more commanding, and his whole manner was solemn and impressive in the highest degree." "My Lords," he exclaimed, "I rejoice that the grave has not closed upon me; that I am still alive, to lift up my voice against the dismemberment of this ancient and most noble monarchy! Pressed down as I am by the hand of infirmity, I am little able to assist my country in this most perilous conjuncture; but, my Lords, while I have sense and memory, I will never consent to deprive the offspring of the royal house of Brunswick, the hêirs of the Princess Sophia, of their fairest inheritance. Shall we tarnish the lustre of this nation by an ignominious surrender of its rights and fairest possessions? Shall this great nation, that has survived, whole and entire, the Danish depredations, the Scottish inroads, the Norman conquest-that has stood the threatening invasion of the Spanish Armada, now fall prostrate before the House of Bourbon? Surely, my Lords, this nation is no longer what it was! Shall a people that seventeen years ago was the terror of the world, now stoop so low as to tell its ancient inveterate enemy, Take all we have, only give us peace? It is impossible. "In God's name, if it is absolutely necessary to declare either for peace or war, and the former cannot be preserved with honor, why is not the latter commenced without delay? I am not, I confess, well informed as to the resources of this kingdom, but I trust it has still sufficient to maintain its just rights, though I know them not. But, my Lords, any state is better than despair. Let us at least make one effort, and, if we must fall, let us fall like men!" When Lord Chatham had taken his seat Lord Temple said to him, "You have forgotten to mention what we have been talking about. Shall I get up?" "No," replied Lord Chatham, "I will do it by and by." After the Duke of Richmond had concluded his speech, Lord Chatham made a strenuous attempt to rise; but after repeated efforts to regain an erect position, he suddenly pressed his hand to his heart, and fell down in convulsions. The Duke of Cumberland, Lord Temple, Lord Sanford, and other peers, saught him in their arms; and his son, the celebrated William Pitt, then a youth of seventeen, sprang forward to support him. The debate was immediately adjourned. Lord Chatham was conveyed in a state of insensibility from the House to his country residence at Hayes, where he lingered a few days, and expired on the 11th of May, 1778, aged seventy years. As 'Demosthenes and Cicero are allowed to have been the greatest orators of whom antiquity can boast, so Lord Chatham has generally been regarded as the most brilliant and powerful senatorial orator of modern times. Certainly, no political speaker, since the days of the Grecian and Roman masters, ever controlled a popular assembly with such absolute sway as Lord Chatham did, by the force of his oratory. His eloquence was irresistible. The fire of his eye, the majesty of his countenance, and the thunder of his voice, awed an assembly into silence, or struck them with terror. DAVID A. HARSHA. CL.-LADY LAURA In a grand old "Gothic Palace, It crowns the warm green valleys, High as their summer-surge swells. 'Tis a noble solitude serene, Where the sudden glory glows! Brimming with brightness and balm; She is the Lily of the land; Born neither to spin nor toil: She can rest her fair cheek on her dainty white hand, Oh! the world of rich visions that peer in her eyes! Around her what fantasies dance! As she leans in her air of paradise, The Lady Laura's soul is sad For the suffering under the sun : She looks on the world, and is only glad For the duties to be done. She might have moved by in the pageant grand, Nor soiled the glory of her white hand, And fairy fingers fine; And swum in this world's wine and oil, Oh! the burnished stream would have bravely borne And the dark wreck-kingdom have proudly worn But Sorrow hath touched her young, young years, Ah, the Poor! with her finer sense she hears They will tell you down in the valleys How the grand old Gothic Palace With Love's new wine doth run. She's a light on the cold hill tops that divide That hath overleapt its bank. And to Lady Laura by window and door, Hearts climb with the roses up, Their blessings to breathe, and their pride to pour, Rebel hindrance she treads queenly down, GERALD MASSEY. CLI.-A LADY TAKING THE VEIL. Ir appeared that the fortunes of the fair being who was this day to take the veil, had been marked by events so full of sorrow, that her story, which was told in whispers by those assembled, was not listened to without the deepest emotion. Circumstances of the most affecting nature had driven her to seek shelter in a sanctuary, where the afflicted may weep in silence, and where, if sorrow is not assuaged, its tears are hidden. All awaited the moment of her entrance with anxious impatience, and on her appearance every eye was directed towards her with an expression of the deepest interest. Splendidly adorned, as is customary on these occasions, and attended by a female friend of high rank, she slowly advanced to the seat assigned her near the altar. Her fine form rose above the middle stature, a gentle bend marked her contour, but it seemed as the yielding of a fading flower: her deep blue eyes, which were occasionally in pious awe raised to heaven, and her long dark eye-lashes, gave life to a beautiful countenance, on which resignation seemed portrayed. The places allotted to us as being strangers, whom the Italians never fail to distinguish by the most courteous manners, were such as not only to enable us to view the whole ceremony, but to contemplate the features and expression of this interesting being. She was the only child of doting parents; but while their afflicted spirit found vent in the tears which coursed over cheeks chilled by sorrow, they yet beheld their treasure about to be for ever separated from them with that resignation which piety inspires, while yielding to a sacrifice made to Heaven. The ceremony now began, the priest pronounced a discourse, and the other observances proceeded in the usual track. At length the solemn moment approached which was to bind her vows to Heaven. She arose and stood a few moments before the altar; when suddenly, yet with noiseless action, she sank extended on the marble floor, and instantly the long black pall was thrown over her. Every heart seemed to shudder and a momentary pause ensued; when the deep silence was broken by the low tones of the organ, accompanied by soft female voices, singing the service of the dead (the requiem). The sound gently swelled in the air, and as the harmonious volume became more powerful, the deep church bell at intervals sounded with a loud clamor, exciting a mixed feeling of agitation and grandeur. Tears were the silent expression of the emotion which thrilled through every heart. This solemn music continued long, and still fell mournfully on the ear; and yet seraphic as in softened tones, and |