The old statesmen are dying off. The next six years will make terrible havoc with the names that have been most familiar to the ears of the last two generations. As they descend into the valley of shadows, where are the men of calm strength and vigour coming up the other side of the hill, bearing the standard of either party? If the hand of death is withheld from their heads, I dare prophesy a combination of Cobden, Gladstone, and Stanley. The present state of public feeling is not natural to England; its levity and capriciousness will pass away and give place to a more healthy fruition of the general growing intelligence. The name of Cobden will yet be the most honoured in the land. No man has more of that inspiring simplicity of manner, and that calm, almost spiritual earnestness of purpose, which, combined with comprehensive thought and the patient power of labour, are sure to gain the moral mastery. In his case these qualities illuminate enduring public services, and a reputation already historical.
Lord Palmerston's impulsive Irish Secretary—who the newspapers say was sent over to the Emeralders as one of the Premier's practical jokes—has been spreading wildfire through that portion
