there exists an element to which bribery would
appeal in vain.

Your Eye-witness, thinks it right to mention
his belief that the main local actors in the
Gloucester election were influenced, and influenced
almost solely, by political motives. We in London
have little idea of what politics are in the
provinces, or, to use their own phrase, how " high
they run." Here is a town like Gloucester, with
its two political clubs, the Conservative and the
Reform; here are men risking their professional
prospects, in many instances paying money out of
pocket (the writer heard this himself in
evidence); here are instances of lawyers bestowing
an amount of labour and time upon an election
which, given to anything else, would have ensured
a fee of three times the amount which the election
brought in; here is a member of that profession
which, of all others, requires the most, in its
followers, an unsullied name—that of medicine
—here is a surgeon, risking his practice, and
owning that he has done what is detrimental to
his personal prospects, and even to his success
in life! And all this, surely not for the paltry
profits of the election, but from political feeling
and prejudice. Politics are in a country town
almost like a religion, and an election acts on the
place like a Revival.

This is the case with only the chief actors in
this drama. With the rest, what is it? A race—
a tearing, headlong race for gold— or for silver,
as the case may be. The voluntary sale of a
constituency; the barter of a seat in Parliament
for so much money; a town indifferent as to who
represents it, as long as it may but claw at the
money, and which would feel disfranchisement
itself more because it lost a marketable
commodity than because it was declared to be
unworthy of a great and sacred trust.

Sitting in that court, and watching the
proceedings closely, it was impossible not to feel
ashamed and pained to an excess, to see grey-
headed citizens, and townsmen high in office,
sitting in their places pale with apprehension,
standing in the witness-box proclaiming their
own misdeeds, or retiring from it abashed and
crestfallen like chidden schoolboys. Well
might that innocent perjurer, whose words we
have already quoted, say that he wished there
had never been an election, and hoped there
would never be another; and well might a rustic,
seated in the court behind the Eye-witness, turn
to his mate and say, "I say, Jack, ' honesty's
the best policy,' after all."

BOOKWORLD.
WHEN the dim presence of the awful Night
   Clasps in its jewell'd arms the slumbering earth,
Alone I sit beside the lowly light
   That like a dream-fire flickers on my hearth,
With some joy-teeming volume in my hand—
A peopled planet, opulent and grand.

It may be Shakspeare, with his endless train
   Of sceptred thoughts, a glorious progeny
Borne on the whirlwind of his mighty strain
   Through vision-lands for ever far and free,
His great mind beaming thro' those phantom crowds,
Like evening sun from out a wealth of clouds.

It may be Milton, on his seraph wing,
   Soaring to heights of grandeur yet untrod;
Now deep where horrid shapes of darkness cling,
   Now lost in splendour at the feet of God;
Girt with the terror of avenging skies,
Or wrapt in dreams of infant Paradise.

It may be Spenser, with his misty shades
   Where forms of beauty wondrous tales rehearse,
With breezy vistas, and with cool arcades
   Opening for ever in his antique verse.
It may be Chaucer, with his drink divine,
His Tabard old, and Pilgrims twenty-nine.

Perchance I linger with the mighty Three
   Of glorious Greece, that morning land of song,
Who bared the fearful front of Tragedy,
   And soared to fame on pinions broad and strong;
Or watch beneath the Trojan ramparts proud
The dim hosts gathering like a thunder-cloud.

No rust of time can sully Quixote's mail,
   In wonted rest his lance securely lies;
Still is the faithful Sancho stout and hale,
   For ever wide his wonder-stricken eyes;
And Rosinante, bare and spectral steed,
Still throws gaunt shadows o'er their every deed.

Still can I robe me in the old delights
   Of Caliph splendid, and of Genii grim,
The star-wealth of Arabia's thousand nights,
   Shining till every other light grows dim;
Wander away in broad, voluptuous lands,
By streams of silver, and through golden sands ,

Still hear the storms of Camoëns burst and swell,
   His seas of vengeance raging wild and wide;
Or wander by the glimmering fires of hell
   With dreaming Dante and his spirit-guide;
Loiter in Petrarch's green, melodious grove,
Or hang with Tasso o'er his hopeless love.

What then to me is all your sparkling dance,
   Wine-purpled banquet, or vain Fashion's blaze,
Thus roaming through the realms of rich Romance,
   Old Bookworld, and its wealth of royal days,
For ever with those brave and brilliant ones
That fill Time's channel like a stream of suns!

ENGLISH MUTTON.

WE Englishmen are proud of our beef, but it
is a question whether we have not much more
reason to be proud of our mutton. English
and Scotch agriculture owe more to mutton
than to beef. Our earliest manufacturing fame
was founded on native long wool. Our greatest
agricultural revolution was produced by feeding
mutton on oil-cake and sliced turnips. The
latest and most approved change in modem
farming involves substituting sheep for bullocks
on land where sheep were unknown to our
ancestors. In a culinary point of view our
mutton is quite as unrivalled as our beef.
Rarely out of England is a first-rate broiled
chop to be obtained; nowhere can the equal of
a Sussex haunch or saddle be obtained; while
the little Highland, Dartmoor, and Exmoor
joints and legs are only to be matched on the
Continent by few and far between specimens of
such native breeds as the Ardennes. Spanish
mutton is uneatable. In France the mutton
can seldom be presented without the disguise of
a fry and a sauce; and in Germany the wise .