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Towards the close of his life, Lord Holland used to be wheeled about in a chair, as his affliction rendered him gradually more and more inactive, terminating eventually with water on the chest. Some short time before he died, he gave the late Marquis of Lansdowne the following epitaph of his own composition:-" Here lies Henry Vassal Fox, Lord Holland, who was drowned while sitting in his elbow-chair." It was in that elbow-chair that he did die; and after his death, the following more serious lines were found on his table :

"Nephew of Fox, and friend of Grey,
Sufficient for my fame

If those who knew me best shall say

I tarnished neither name."

On his death, in 1840, Lord Holland was succeeded by his son, Henry Edward, fourth and last Baron Holland. He was born in 1802, and in 1826 was returned M.P. for Horsham. From 1839 to 1842 he represented England as Minister Plenipotentiary at the Court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, having married, in 1833, the Lady Mary Augusta, daughter of the Earl of Coventry. By him several important improvements and alterations were made at Holland House. The new terrace and parapet in front was constructed. The new entrance and staircase from the hall was erected, and the roof of the library was groined and lighted. Unfortunately, the master who exhibited so much regard for the noble house that he had inherited, was not destined to enjoy it long. He died at Naples on the 18th December, 1859, and was buried there. By his will, the house and estate were left absolutely to his widow, who jealously preserves the fabric and guards its valuable contents, and who, let us hope, will take good care that future generations shall find the home of Addison and Fox intact. Whoever may become possessor of Holland House (seeing what we have seen in the present age of spendthrift spoliation, and of disregard both for property and possessions, which, though they may be private as to tenure, are public and national in their antiquarian interest), all who love the few precious relics still spared to us, will fervently desire that the hand of the spoiler or speculator may not "lay waste this dwelling-place."

Bull in the Whale's Belly.

BY SMELFUNGUS.

Vide "Times" newspaper of day now passing or past :-" On Wednesday last, Her Majesty's Ministers, as usual at this time. dined together at the Ship,' Greenwich." Truly, a Symposium of the frightfullest kind, this; plain Belshazzar's Feast, as seems to me; the old Mene, Mene, Tekel, etc., visibly scribbling itself, for such as might have eyes to see, on every square foot of the apartment. Really ghastly to think of the poor devils jubilant in their "Ship" there, bound for mere Orcus and the belly of Hell, serenely unconscious the while, and dreaming of the Happy Isles. "Lord Derby, from indisposition, unhappily unable to be present." Poor old Rupert of Debate, of whom one cannot but still think, after all that has come and gone, with something of a partially human feeling! Heir of all these antique chivalries and heroisms, and even in some sort authentic heir, as no thrice blessed "Law of Entail" could ever the least have made him; with some clear flash in him yet, as of battle-steel which flashed on Flodden; fit, had the Gods so ordered it, to have been a Rupert of so much other than mere Debate, and perhaps to have slain some considerable Pythons for us. Indisposition of poor old Rupert? The podagras and nodosities presumably, known to have pressed a little sore of late on the poor old fellow; heir, too, it seems, of these, among the other aristocratic felicities. Indisposition of him presumably some acuter or acutest twinge of sad inherited podagras! Possibly-one hopes it, one will try to believe it-indisposition, mainly, to be present at so foul and obscene an orgie, comparable only to that of hideous Irish savages waking the dead body of their mother. One almost thinks it may be so mainly; and that the podagras were only incidentally concerned in it. One cannot but surmise, old Rupert, thinking of the turn things have now taken, and of his own share in that bad matter, must have fierce twinges of soul at times, to which no twinge in the mere great toe of him, or the like, could ever in the least be comparable. Old Rupert indisposed to be present by the sad podagra twinges belike, or, haply, by sorer beneficent twinges of just horror and remorse, the Dizzy creature clearly cock of the walk on the occasion, and, as such, was "received with the greatest enthusiasm "—the whole company buzzing

and swarming about him to such an extent as we may fancy. Creature, of whom much were to be said, did the English language afford to present writer-disposed, if he could, to be polite-the proper terms of courtesy to say it in. Great man, he? as the swarmeries and buzzeries keep buzzing to us. Surely, no, let the swarmeries buzz as they will of him. Not a great kind of man, this! Yet surely-for, were he Beelzebub himself, it is fit his dues should be given him-the adroitest, dexterousest, shiftiest of men! And undoubtedly at this sad juncture the one supremely successful man. The successful, and, therefore-in his kind-the able man; the man able to succeed. Without doubt, in the present crisis, this Dizzy exhibits himself throughout as a Can-ning and victorious Doer-doer of his friends, the Tory party, to an extent that may be held miraculous. Beyond question a political Jew (and Do) of the very highest eminence! I will quit this of the Dizzy creature, as wishing to remain polite. ElseO heavens! were there not to be said yet a thing or two? Wretched "Old Clo" scandal of creation, of whom, and the sad, bad ways of him, a writer, who is nothing, if not courteous, must decline here to speak farther. Of these other gay banqueteers who could care to say anything? They are altogether dim and dark to me; very names of them the saner kind of human memory declines to keep hold of beyond the minute. We will leave them--poor devils!—as we found them, so exceedingly happy in the "Ship," toasting "our noble selves," and little dreaming whither bound.

One little feature in this dreadful Symposium-my friends, it is really dreadful, dreadful and tragical, if you will think of it; what can accurately be called thinking-I note-before washing my hands of the fetid subject-as not, perhaps, without its significance. "Throughout the evening, no allusion whatever was made to political subjects." Infandum! infandum! The thing is done, then! Alas! yes-it is done -but, for God's sake, don't unnecessarily speak of, or even "allude" to such a horror; here, as we are, to enjoy ourselves, though, indeed, a little under difficulties. So might sit some pale conclave of murderersthe corpses in the next room-with blue ruin circulating freely, wild levities on the lips of them, in the souls of them a ghastly terror, and, "Oh, damn you! don't allude," for any one venturing to hint at the all-absorbing, but proscribed, grim topic. This latest version of "Oh no, we never mention her," has perhaps, as I said, its significance. Probably, in the whole room-the Dizzy creature except, perhaps, as incapable of any such emotion-there did not feast a man who was not, in the

secret soul of him, ashamed of himself, as party to that bad, base, fraudulent transaction.

It is done, then, it seems, and no mistake; the frightful Niagara Fall is shot; and the famous old three-decker, "Britannia" (Queen, Lords, Commons), with all flags flying, "Hearts of oak,' our Captain cried," and "tremendous cheers" resounding fore and aft, of Jack Tars in a jocund humour, has gone down into the monstrous deep. My friends, it is a parlous plunge; and the omens of it-as is known, are meantime a little obscure to me. No poor Indian, in his poor canoe of bark, taking it, was ever yet, that I know of, extant again, as good for much in this God's world. At best, after certain months, some twenty miles down the river, some putrid rag and tatter of him might be heard of, which the farmer of a thrifty, economic turn could utilise in way of manure. But with the "Heart of Oak," perhaps, it may fare better. Instead of mere planks and tatters of poor corpses making the shores hideous, the good old ship may come up again bodily, with flags still flying bravely, Jack Tars still cheering, cheering, and triumph of all on board, as after such a feat in the Naval line, as Blake and mighty Nelson never dreamed of. One hopes it may turn out so-though not without fear, one hopes it. In a world always of an abstruse kind, though we scientifically peer into it ever so, no strangest resuscitations need ever be wholly despaired of.

The case of our ancient friend Jonah should seem to be more or less in point here. Jonah, prophetic person of the Hebrew species, gone upon bad courses, and "fleeing from the face of the Lord"-it is a phrase, my much illuminated friends, with deep meaning now, as of old-thought it best for him to go by sea. The infatuated mortal so fleeing! It is well known whither he fled-into the devouring belly of "a great fish"-whale, say some; but we will leave the species obscure, not seeking to be wise beyond what is written. Clear finis of Jonah, you would say, and conclusion put upon him and his prophesyings. But it did not turn out so; it turned out quite other than so, as is vouched to us by the record. Jonah, engulphed in his dark prison, wondering much, as is like, where the deuce it was he had got to, tumbled about as we may fancy there, seeking his way out-tumbled and rumbled extremely, and "cried" mightily, as we read. The unhappy prophet! one pities him a little in his dark plight; but also one must confess to a little human feeling for the whale, unused to a diet of live prophets, and puzzled to dispose of this one. A prophet not to be disposed of by the understood methods of digestion. Whale strove hard to digest the prophet, diligently secreting its juices upon him; the indigestible

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prophet, secreted upon corrosively, tumbled and rumbled, as was natural, not the less terribly, but the more. Finally, the poor seamonster, very sick with its prophet, and thinking, in the dim, fishy mind of it, it must have swallowed the very devil himself, incontinently "vomited" its prophet, glad to be quit of him on any terms; vomited him on dry land"-which was considerate on the poor seamonster's part-and wished him God-speed elsewhither. Jonah, equally glad, for his part, to be quit of the sea-monster, hied him to Nineveh forthwith, and was diligent in the Lord's work there. A prophet, no longer mutinous, seeking in that infatuated manner to flee; but zealous wholly to serve, as improved by his dark experiences. Venerable old piece of Jew history, by certain persons not believed, and even held flatly ridiculous. Not needful here to go into this, nor profitable in the least, if we were to go. For my own poor part, I find it about as believable as most things I read in Dryasdust, Lord Macaulay, and the like. Some image of an eternal verity I also find in it, of which there is in poor Dryasdust, nothing, or next to nothing. Image which, as heart of the matter, remains for ever precious to me, even were the mere husk and outer vehicle set aside as sheerly preposterous. But, as I said, we will not go into this. Sufficient for present purposes, that in this old History, or Mythus-call it what you will, in the God's name-inexpressibly unimportant what you call it-this thing which of old was, or perhaps was not—it does not really much matter which—we seem to have a rather pretty type or figure of the sad thing which even now is. Poor old Bull-as I figure it in an easy way-deep sunk in his dark esuriences, and "fleeing from the face of the Lord"-he, surely, as the unhappy prophet of old did, has got himself fairly pitched overboard-has pitched himself overboard, poor blockhead-and the sea-beast Democracy, for his much sins, has devoured him. Horrid sea-monster! which this while past has had its eye upon him, and "blest its maw destined to this good hour." Will its maw, now it has at length got him, really be at all the better for Bull, as able to digest, assimilate, conclusively make pulp, nutriment, and nonentity of him? Will the monster find Bull digestible? This is now the question of questions. Any accurate horoscope of Bull, in the strange, new conditions he has got into, I could not undertake to calculate. Be it far from me-the like of me-to attempt so intricate a problem! But one or two little points of prophecy one may venture to promulgate as sure. I venture to predict, with much confidence, of Bull in the belly of the sea-beast, that his tumblings and rumblings will be dreadful there. The exploits of the dark creature are already, in this kind, dreadful

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