accident; he was standing so, and he never meant it. Did you, Master Sisty? Speak! (this in a whisper) or pa will be so angry.'

'Well,' said my mother, 'I suppose it was an accident; take care in future, my child. You are sorry, I see, to have grieved me. There's a kiss ; don't fret.'

‘No, mamma, you must not kiss me; I don't deserve it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose.'

'Ha! and why?' said my father, walking up.

Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf.

'For fun!' said I, hanging my head—'just to see how you'd look, papa; and that's the truth of it. Now beat me, do beat me.'

My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and caught me to his breast. 'Boy,' he said, 'you have done wrong; you shall repair it, by remembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him a son who spoke truth in spite of fear. Oh! Mrs. Primmins, the next fable of this kind you try to teach him, and we part for ever.'

Not long after that event, Mr. Squills, who often made me little presents, gave me one far exceeding in value those usually bestowed on children-it was a beautiful large domino box in cut ivory, painted and gilt. This domino-box was my delight. I was never weary of playing at dominoes with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box under my pillow.

‘Ah !' said my father one day when he found me ranging the ivory parallelograms in the parlour-'ah! you like that better than all your playthings, eh?'

'Ah! yes, papa.'

'You would be very sorry if your mamma were to throw that box out of the window and break it for fun.'

I looked beseechingly at my father, and made no answer. 'But perhaps you would be very glad,' he resumed, ‘if suddenly one of those good fairies you read of could change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a beautiful blueand-white flower-pot, and that you could have the pleasure of putting it on your mamma's window-sill.'

'Indeed I would!' said I, half-crying.

'My dear boy, I believe you; but good wishes don't mend bad actions-good actions mend bad actions,'

So saying, he shut the door and went out I cannot tell you `how puzzled I was to make out what my father meant by his aphorism. But I know that I played at dominoes no more that day. The next morning my father found me seated by myself under a tree in the garden; he paused and looked at me with his grave bright eyes very steadily.

a town

'My boy,' said he, 'I am going to walk to about two miles off; will you come? And by the bye, fetch. your domino-box; I should like to show it to a person there.'

I ran in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking with my father on the high road, we set out.

Papa,' said I by the way, 'there are no fairies now.' 'What then, my child?'

'why, how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and a blue-and-white flower-pot?'

'My dear,' said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, 'everybody who is in earnest to be good carries two fairies about with him—one here,' and he touched my forehead; ‘and one here,' and he touched my heart.

'I don't understand, papa.'

'I can wait till you do, Pisistratus !'

My father stopped at a nursery gardener's, and, after looking over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. 'Ah, this is finer than that which your mamma was so fond of. What is the cost, sir?'

'Only 7s. 6d.,' said the gardener.

My father buttoned up his pocket. 'I can't afford it to-day,' said he gently, and we walked out.

On entering the town we stopped again at a china warehouse. Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some months ago? Ah, here is one marked 3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well, when your mamma's birthday comes again, we must buy her another. That is some months to wait. And we can wait, Master Sisty. For truth that blooms all the year round is better than a poor geranium; and a word that is never broken is better than a piece of Delft.'

My head, which had drooped before, rose again; but the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me.

'I have called to pay your little bill,' said my father, entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers common in

country towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty toys and nicknacks. 'And by the way,' he added, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, 'I think my little boy here can show you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that workbox which you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling for last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.'

commendations.

I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his 'It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?'

'why, sir,' said the shopman, 'I fear we could not afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some of those pretty things in exchange.'

'Eighteen shillings !' said my father; 'you would give that. Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it.'

My father paid his bill, and went out. I lingered behind a few moments, and joined him at the end of the street.

'Papa, papa !' I cried, clapping my hands, 'we can buy the geranium-we can buy the flower-pot.' And I pulled a handful of silver from my pocket.

'Did I not say right?' said my father, passing his handkerchief over his eyes. You have found the two fairies !'

Ah! how proud, how overjoyed I was, when after placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the spot.

'It is his doing and his money!' said my father, 'good actions have mended the bad.'

'What!' cried my mother, when she had learned all; 'and your poor domino-box that you were so fond of! We will go back to-morrow, and buy it back, if it costs us double.'

'Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus?' asked my father.

'Oh, no-no-no!—it would spoil all,' I cried, burying my face on my father's breast.

'My wife,' said my father solemnly, 'this is my first lesson to our child-the sanctity and happiness of self-sacrifice—undo not what it should teach him to his dying hour.'

And that is the history of the broken flower-pot.—Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

24. GREVILLE'S SKETCHES OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES.

Sir Robert Peel in 1834.

Peel's is an enviable position; in the prime of life, with an immense fortune, facile princeps in the House of Commons, unshackled by party connections and prejudices, universally regarded as the ablest man, and with, on the whole, a very high character, free from the cares of office, able to devote himself to literature, to politics, or idleness, as the fancy takes him. No matter how unruly the House, how impatient or fatigued, the moment he rises all is silence, and he is sure of being heard with profound attention and respect. This is the enjoyable period of his life, and he must make the most of it, for when time and the hour shall bring about his return to power, his cares and anxieties will begin, and with whatever success his ambition may hereafter be crowned he will hardly fail to look back with regret to this holiday time of his political career. How free and light he must feel at being liberated from the shackles of his old connections, and at being able to take any part that his sense of his own interests or of the public exigencies may point out! And then the satisfactory consciousness of being by far the most eminent man in the House of Commons, to see and feel the respect he inspires and the consideration he enjoys. It is a melancholy proof of the decadence of ability and eloquence in that House, when Peel is the first, and, except Stanley, almost the only real orator in it. He speaks with great energy, great dexterity—his language is powerful and easy; he reasons well, hits hard, and replies with remarkable promptitude and effect; but he is at an immense distance below the great models of eloquence-Pitt, Fox, and Canning; his voice is not melodious, and it is a little monotonous; his action is very ungraceful, his person and manner are vulgar, and he has certain tricks in his motion which exhibit that vulgarity in a manner almost offensive, and which is only redeemed by the real power of his speeches. His great merit consists in his judgment, tact, and

discretion, his facility, promptitude, thorough knowledge of the assembly he addresses, familiarity with the details of every sort of Parliamentary business, and the great command he has over himself. He never was a great favourite of mine, but I am satisfied that he is the fittest man to be Minister, and I therefore wish to see him return to power.

Canning.

The Duke of Wellington talked of Canning the other day a great deal at my mother's. He said his talents were astonishing, his compositions admirable, that he possessed the art of saying exactly what was necessary, and passing over those topics on which it was not advisable to touch, his fertility and resources inexhaustible. He thought him the finest speaker he had ever heard : though he prided himself extremely upon his compositions, he would patiently endure any criticisms upon such papers as he submitted for the consideration of the Cabinet, and would allow them to be altered in any way that was suggested; he (the Duke) particularly had often 'cut and hacked' his papers, and Canning never made the least objection, but was always ready to adopt the suggestion of his colleagues. It was not so, however, in conversation and discussion. Any difference of opinion or dissent from his views threw him into ungovernable rage, and on such occasions he flew out with a violence which, the Duke said, had often compelled him to be silent that he might not be involved in bitter personal altercation. He said that Canning was usually very silent in the Cabinet, seldom spoke at all, but when he did he maintained his opinions with extraordinary tenacity. He said that he was one of the idlest of men. This I do not believe, for I have always heard that he saw everything and did everything himself. Not a despatch was received that he did not read, nor one written that he did not dictate or correct.

Macaulay and Brougham.

Brougham-tall, thin, and commanding in figure, with a face which, however ugly, is full of expression, and a voice of great power, variety, and even melody, notwithstanding his occasional prolixity and tediousness-is an orator in every

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