Ryland began by praising the present state of the British empire.  He recalled past years to their memory; the miserable contentions which in the time of our fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of the late king, and the foundation of the republic.  He described this republic; shewed how it gave privilege to each individual in the state, to rise to consequence, and even to temporary sovereignty.  He compared the royal and republican spirit; shewed how the one tended to enslave the minds of men; while all the institutions of the other served to raise even the meanest among us to something great and good.  He shewed how England had become powerful, and its inhabitants valiant and wise, by means of the freedom they enjoyed.  As he spoke, every heart swelled with pride, and every cheek glowed with delight to remember, that each one there was English, and that each supported and contributed to the happy state of things now commemorated.  Ryland’s fervour increased—­his eyes lighted up—­his voice assumed the tone of passion.  There was one man, he continued, who wished to alter all this, and bring us back to our days of impotence and contention:—­one man, who would dare arrogate the honour which was due to all who claimed England as their birthplace, and set his name and style above the name and style of his country.  I saw at this juncture that Raymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn from the orator, and cast on the ground; the listeners turned from one to the other; but in the meantime the speaker’s voice filled their ears—­the thunder of his denunciations influenced their senses.  The very boldness of his language gave him weight; each knew that he spoke truth—­a truth known, but not acknowledged.  He tore from reality the mask with which she had been clothed; and the purposes of Raymond, which before had crept around, ensnaring by stealth, now stood a hunted stag—­even at bay—­as all perceived who watched the irrepressible changes of his countenance.  Ryland ended by moving, that any attempt to re-erect the kingly power should be declared treason, and he a traitor who should endeavour to change the present form of government.  Cheers and loud acclamations followed the close of his speech.

After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond rose,—­his countenance bland, his voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and sweetness came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the loud, organ-like voice of his adversary.  He rose, he said, to speak in favour of the honourable member’s motion, with one slight amendment subjoined.  He was ready to go back to old times, and commemorate the contests of our fathers, and the monarch’s abdication.  Nobly and greatly, he said, had the illustrious and last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the apparent good of his country, and divested himself of a power which could only be maintained by the blood of his subjects—­these subjects named so no more, these, his friends and equals, had in gratitude