Parliament proceeded to discuss its
"Charitable Trusts Act, 1852, Amendment Bill."
The second of the new set of reports had
pointed out the defects to be remedied,
and an attempt was made to remedy
them in the new measure, which after passing
through select committee found its way
to the House of Commons, where it was
recommended to attention by Lord Palmerston,
as having for its "real object, to vest the
commissioners with certain powers of
administration, which would prevent the necessity
for long, expensive, and multiplied Chancery
suits." In August of last year a debate was
held upon it, wherein much was said of the
late period of the session and of hurried
legislation. An opposition then sprung up on the
part of a body having no disinclination for
long and expensive Chancery suits, the equity
counsel, who are powerful in the lower house,
and are called by the writer in the last number
of the Law Magazine, whose very sensible
article furnishes the ground-work for this
chapter, and are called, according to an old
professional joke, the honourable members for
Chancery Lane. These gentlemen amused
themselves over the drilling of holes into the
unhappy Amendment Act; and, when it was
made, if anything less able to hold water than
the leaky measure for which it was to be
substituted, the Amendment Bill of eighteen
hundred and fifty-five, passing the Commons—
went back to the Lords, where the loss of its
essential provisions was deplored, and
witness was borne to the skill of the professional
gentlemen in another place who had
again rendered the bill abortive. So the
Amendment Act was passed, amending
nothing; and an act to amend the amendment
may, perhaps, be introduced next
session.

OCEAN.

OH, that this silver stream would bear my soul,
   (Whilst, in abstracted mood, I watch'd some star)
Like sere leaf on its water's petty roll!
  I would its devious windings follow far,
And never with one thought disturb its flow,
   But, like a child in some beloved embrace,
Lie still and rest, and purest pleasure know
   In looking to attain the wish'd-for place.

With thee, great Ocean, would I long to be;
   Again to rest upon thy shell-strewn sand;
To list, like lover, to the melody
   Of thy dear voice; to kiss the snowy hand
Which smoothes to pillows the rough beach; to fold
   In my embrace thy rocks; in dreams, once more
To spend old hours with thee, and to behold
   Thy face, reflecting Heaven as of yore.

To seek concealed wonders few would note,
   The unheeded ripple, like an infant smile,
The shell of life deserted; or to float
   On thy calm breast at evening, the while
No sound should startle the tranced air, and gaze
   On minute forests and strange plants that grow
On thy sand-floor, where, folded in the maze
   Of purple leaves, untended flowers blow.

To watch the evening shades and vapours dun
   Gather like clouds of sorrow on thy face,
And to behold, perchance, the weary sun
   Serenely sinking in thy kind embrace,
Like a most wayward child who will not rest,
   Save on one breast; for thee, in silence deep,
To rock his cloudy cradle in the west,
   And draw the curtain as he falls asleep.

To wait until the moon, in garments bright,
   Enters the sky as a deserted town,
Changing the battlements to walls of light,
   Whilst, scarcely seen, some starry-eyes look down,
With gentle greeting, as she glides along.
   The Queen of Peace, with majesty elate;
But thou, as lonely echo some sweet song,
   ln thy clear breast dost mock her little state.

Like watcher by a slumbering child, to list
   To thy low breathing, as thou sleepest by;
To see the distant vessel veil'd in mist,
   Like spirit invoked of the moon on high;
To climb some rock, and calm my troubled mind,
   The while unwearied tides pass on below,
Though all seem still, and there is no rough wind
   To weave the dying wave a wreath of snow.

Thou, Ocean, art the same; but where are they
   With whom I loved to haunt thy vocal shore?
Life's changes bore them from my path away,
   And I may see those well-known forms no more:
Sad thought, no more to tread that glistening beach,
   And watch thy troubled bosom heave and fall,
In their sweet presence,— for beyond my reach
   Wafted are those dear hearts, and scatter'd all.

As if, far distant in the universe,
   A group of planets, which to our short sight
Had seem'd a shining cloud, should all disperse,
   Deserting their true paths of borrow'd light,
And, on the eternal ocean, circling far,
   Seek island worlds; leaving their sun, bereft
Of their kind ministry, a wandering star,
   To explore Heaven alone. So I am left.

I am left; and find solace in the dreams
   Peopling my mind, as that deserted sun,
In the fair race with which its surface teems,
   'Neath the bright awning human gaze would shun;
And when to thy breast, Ocean, my thoughts fly,
   Like thy pure tribute for the thirsty ground,
Purged from pollution, they are drawn on high,
   Where all my faithful lost ones shall be found.

THE NINTH OF JUNE.

IN TEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST.

IT amounted to an expostulation. A close
four-wheeler for a gentleman like me, come
down to Matlock Bath for the benefit of his
health? Why, what fresh air could be
got in a shut-up trap like that, he should
like to know. No, no; a canter was the
thing to suit my complaint; a canter on his
old roan that had carried—ay, and cured,
—many a gentleman that looked much more
white about the gills than I did. She wasn't
young, to be sure; but game as a three-year
old, and uncommon quiet to drive or ride.
The country for miles round was, as