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TIMiIM PEI!, ANNUM IN ADVANCE. SECOND YEAH,NO. 18.,...WH0LE NO. #*. a seifHMi iwm jqsbml... mmm tq mmmm, fm aits mb sraas, mb to wm samifflis. For lUchardj’ Weekly Gazette. SONG. We walk'd beneath the shadow Os pines that moan’d around— The cold grass rustled to our tread, And frost was on the ground. The moon rose dim above us, And sombre clouds conceal’d Each star that should have witnessed The love, that night, reveal'd. Hut in our trance we heard not The whispers of the pine, That mingled with my words and inarr’d The melody of thine. Thy passion was too fervent, Thy heart too true to fear The incoming in that darken’d sky, The waning on the air. And still, in hope deceptive, We wander’d through the gloom, Nor thought, one passing moment, Upon the waiting doom. And still, with deep’ning pleasure, 1 listened to the vow Which pledg’d that faith forever Thou hast forgotten now. Long years explain’d the prophecy Which sounded on that breeie — Alas! what love could prosper Beneath such auspices. A darken’d moon above us, And every star conceal’d— The only light in Heaven, Through sombre clouds reveal’d. 1 do not blame thee, dear one, Because no longer mine ; If that sweet dream is ended, The falsehood was not thine : An influence beyond thee — A power above control— My own sad destiny—has dimm’d The love within thy soul. AGL.YUS. [Lil £&&&¥ I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY. From Dickons’ David Copperfield.^ I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my birthday came round in March. Except that Steerforth was more to be admiied than ever, I re member nothing. He was going away at the end of the half-year, if not sooner, and wasTnore spirited and independant than be fore: but beyond this I remember nothing. The great remembrance by which that time is marked in my mind, seems to have swal lowed up all lesser recollections, and to ex ist alone. It is even difficult forme to believe that there was a’ gap of full two months be tween my return to Salem House and the arrival of that birthday. I can only un derstand that the fact was so, because I know it must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced that there was no in terval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other’s heels. How well I recollect the kind of day it was! 1 smell the fog that hung about the place ; I seethe hoar frost, ghostly, through it; I feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek : I look along the dim perspective of the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle here and there to light up the foggy morn ing, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon the floor. It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from Ihe play-ground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said : “ David Copperfield is to go into the par lor.” 1 expected a hamper from l’eggotty, and brightened at the order. Some of the boys about me put in their cl.Vm not to be for gotten in the distribution of the good things, as I got out of my seat with great alac rity. ’Don't hurry, David,” said Mr. Sharp. —“There’s time enough, my boy, don’t i hurry.” I might have been surprised by the feel- 1 ing tone in which he spoke, if I had given l it a thought; but T gave it none until after wards. 1 hurried away to the parlor ; and i there I found Mr. Creakle silling at his : breakfast with the cane and a newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle with an I opened letter in her hand. But no ham per. “ David Copperfield,” said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and silting down be side me. “ I want to speak to you very particularly. 1 have something to tell you my child.” Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I look ed, shook his head without looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of buttered toast. “ You are too young to know how the world changes every day,” said Mrs. Crea kle, “ ami how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn it, David ; some of us at all times of our lives.” I looked at her earnestly. “When you came away from home at the end of the vacation,” eaid Mrs. Crea kle, after a pause, “ were they all well ?” And after another pause, “ Was your ma ma well ?” I trembled without distinctly knowing why and still looked at her earnestly, ma king no attempt to answer. “Because,” said she, “I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your mama is very ill.” A mist arose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face, and it was steady a gain. J “ She is very dangerously ill,” she ad ded. I knew all now. “ She is dead.” There was no need of telling me so. I had already broken out into adesolate cry and felt an orphan in the wide world. She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me alone sometimes; and I cried and wore myself to sleep, and awoke and cried again. When I could cry no more, I began to think ; and then the oppression on my breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that there was no ease for. And yet my thoughts were idle; not in tent on the calamity that weighed upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of our house shut up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who Mrs. Creakle said had been pining away for some time, and I who they believed, would die too. I I thought of my father’s grave in the church | yard, by our house, and of my mother ly ing there beneath the tree I knew so well. I stood upon a chair when I was left alone, and looked into the glass to see how red my eyes were, and how sorrowful my face. 1 considered, after some hours were gone, if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be, what, in con nexion with my loss, it would affect me most to think of when I drew near home —for I was going home to the funeral. I am sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the rest of the boys, and that I was important in my affliction. If ever child was stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I remember that this im portance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when 1 walked in the playground that af ternoon, while the boys were in school. When I saw them glancing at me out of the windows, as they went up to their classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me, I felt it rather good in my self not to he proud to any of them, and to take exactly the same notice of them all, as before. I was to go home next night; not by the mail, hut by the heavy night coach, which was called the (•’aimer, and was principal-, ly used by country people travelling short : intermediate distances upon the road. We had no story telling that evening, and Trad- ( dies insisted on lending me his pillow. 1 j don’t know what good he thought it would . do me, for I had one of my own ; but it, was all he had to lend, poor fellow excepl ; a sheet of letter paper full of skeletons ; and that he gave me at parting, as a soother of j my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of mind. I left Salem House upon the morrow as- j | ternoon. I little thought then that I left it J j never to return. We travelled very slow ly all night, and did not get into Yarmouth j before nine or ten o'clock in the morning, j j 1 looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was j not there; and instead of him a fat, short ; winded, merry-looking, little old man in^ black, with rusty little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stock : ings, and a broad brimmed hat, came puf j sing up to the coach window, and said : “ Master Copperfield ?” j “ Yes sir.” | “ Will you come with me, young sir, if | you please,” he said, opening the door, ; “and I shall have the pleasure of taking ; you home.” I put my hand in his. wondering who he | was, and we walked away to a shop in a narrow street, on which was written Omer, j Draper, Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral Fur j nisher, &c. It was a close and stifling lit | tie shop ; full of all sorts of clothing, made ! and unmade, including one window full of | beaver-hats and bonnets. We went into a | little back-parlor behind the shop, where i we found three young women at work on ; a quantity of black materials, which were j heaped upon the table, and little bits and j cuttings of which were littered all over the floor. There was a good fire in the room, j and a breathless smell of warm black crape i—l did not know what the smell was then, I! but I know now. ■ | The three young women, who appear j ed to be very industrious and comfortable, raised their heads to look at me, and then went on with their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the same time | there caine from a workshop across a lit tle yard outside the window, a regular ; sound of hammering that kept a kind of I tune: Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, without any variation. “ Well,” said my conductor to one of the three young women. “ How do you get on, Minnie?” “We shall be ready by the trying-on ! time,” she replied gaily, without looking | up. “ Don’t you be afraid, father.” Mi. Omer took ofifliis broad brimmed hat, and sat down and panted. He was so fat that he was obliged to pant some time be ’ fore he could say : “ That’s right.” “Father!” said Minnie playfully. “What ] a porpoise you do grow! ’ “ Well, I don’t know how it is, my dear,” !he replied, considering about it. “Inm ! rather so.” “You are such a comfortable man, you ‘see,” said Minnie. “You take things so ■ easy.” “No use taking’em otherwise, my dear,” said Mr. Omer. “ No, indeed,” returned his daughter.— “ We are all pretty gay here, thank Heaven! | Ain’t we, father ?” I “ I hope so, my dear,” said Mr. Omer.— I “As I have got my breath now, 1 think I’ll : measure this young scholar. Would you | walk into the shop, Master Copperfield!” I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with j his request; and after showing me a roll j of cloth which he said was extra super, and I too good mourning for anything short of parents, he took my various dimensions, and put them down in a hook. While he j was recording them he called my attention I to his stock in trade, and to certain fasli | ions which he said had “just come up,” I and to certain other fashions which he said | had “just gone out.” “And by that sort of thing we very oft- I en lose a little mint of money,” said Mr. j Omer. “But fashions are like human be -1 ings. They come in, nobody knows when, why, or how. Everything is like life, in ! my opinion, if you look at it in that point of view.” I was too sorrowful to discuss the ques tion, which would possibly have been be- I yond me under any circumstances; and Mr. Omer took me back into the parlor, J breathing with some difficulty on the way. He then called down a little break-neck range of steps behind a door: “Bring up ! that tea and bread-and-butter !” which, af i ter some time, during which I sat looking about me and thinking, and listening tothf* I stitching in the room, and the tune that was being hammered across the yard, appeared on a tray, and turned out to be for me. “ I have been acquainted with you,” j said Mr. Omer, after watching me forsonie minutes, during which I had not made j much impression on the breakfast, for the , black things destroyed my appetite, “ I have . been acquainted with you a long time, my young friend.” “ Have you sir ?” “ All your life.” said Mr. Omer. “ 1 may say before it. I knew your father bc- I fore you. He was five foot nine and a| | half, and he lays in five and twenty foot of | ground.” “ Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat,” ; j across the yard. “He lays in five and twenty foot of, i ground, if he lays in a fraction,” said Mr. j Omer pleasantly. “It was either his re-! 1 quest or her direction, I forgot which-” | “ Do you know how my little brother is, sir?” I inquired. Mr. Omer shook his head. “Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat.” j “ He is in his mother’s arms,” said he. “ Oh, poor little fellow! Is he dead ?” j “ Don’t mind it more than you can | help,” said Mr Omer, “Yes. The baby’s; dead.” My wounds broke out afresh at this in telligence. I left the scarcely-tasted break fast, and went and rested my head on anoth er table in the corner of the little room, which Minnie hastily cleared, lest 1 should j spot the mourning that was lying there ‘ with my tears. She was a preliy good-na tured girl, and put my hair away from my j eyes with a soft kind touch ; hut she was j very cheerful at having neatly finished her | work and being in good time, and was so j different from me. Presently the tune left off, and a good lookjng young fellow came across the yard ; into the room. He had a hammer, in his hand, and his mouth was full of little nails, which he was obliged to takeout before he could speak. “ Well, Joram!” said Alt. Omer. “How do you get on ?” “All light,” said Joram. “ Done sir.” Minnie colored a little, and the other two girls smiled at one another. “ What! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I was at the club, then ? Were you ?” said Mr. Omer, shutting up one eye. “Yes,” said Joram. “As you said we could make a little trip of it, and go over together, if it was done, Minnie and me — and you.” “Oh ! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether,” said Mr. Oincr, laugh ing till he coughed. “ —As you was so good as to say that,” resumed the young man, “why 1 turned to it with a will, you see. Will you give me your opinion of it ?” “ I will,” said Mr. Omer, rising. “My dear;” and he stopped and turned to me ; “ would you like to see your ” “No, father,” Minnie interposed. “I thought it might be agreeable, my dear,” said Mr. Omer. “ But perhaps you’re right.” I can’t say how I knew that it was my dear mother’s coffin that they went to look at. 1 had never heard one making; I had never seen one that I know of; but it came into my mind what the noise was, while it was going on ; and when the young man entered, I am sure I knew what he had been doing. The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names I had not heard, brush ed the shreds and threads from their dres ses, and went into the shop to put that to rights, and wait for customers. Minnie stayed behind to fold up what they had made, and pack it into baskets. This she did upon her knees, humming a lively lit tle tune the while.—Jorant, who I had no doubt was her lover, came in and stole a kiss from her whileshe was busy (hedidn’t appear to mind me, at all,) and said her father was gone for the chaise, and he must make haste and get himself ready. Then he went out again : and she put her thim ble and scissors in her pocket, and stuck a needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosom of her gown, and put on her outer clothing smartly, at a little glass be hind the door, in which I saw the reflec tion of her pleased face. All this I obseived, sitting at the table in the corner with my head leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on verj different things. The chaise soon came round to the front of the shop, and the bas kets being put in first, I was put in next, and those three followed. I remember it as a kind of half chaise cart, halt piano forte van, painted of a sombre color, and drawn by a black horse with a long tail. There was plenty of room for us all. I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling in my life, (I am wiser now, perhaps,) as that of being with them, remembering how they had been employed, and seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not angry with them; I was more afraid of them, as if I were cast away among crea tures with whom l had no community of i nature. They were very cheerful. The ■ old man sat in front to drive, and the two young people sat behind him, and when-1 ever he spoke to them, leaned forward, the i one on one side of his chubby face, and the ; other on the other, and made a great deal of him. They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and moped in my cor-! ner; scared by their love-making and hi larity, though it was far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgment j came upon them for their hardness of J heart. So, when they stopped to bait the horse. and ate and drank and enjoyed themselves. ! I could touch nothing that they touched, hut kept my fast unbroken. So, when we reached home, 1 dropped out of the chaise behind, as quickly as possible, that I n.ight ! not he in their company before these sol emn windows, looking blindly on me like | closed eyes once bright. And oh, how lit- ! tie need I had had to think what would j move me to tears when I came back —see- ing the window of my mother’s room, and • next it. that which, in the better lime, was mine! I was in Peggotty’s arms before 1 got to the door, and bhe took me into the house. Her grief burst out when she first saw me; ; but she controlled it soon, and spoke in whispers, and walked softly, as if the j dead could be disturbed. She liad not been j in bed, 1 found, for a long time. She sat. lup at night still, and watched. As long as her poor dear pretty was above ground, j she said she would never desert her. Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when i I went into the parlor where he was, but sat by the fire-side, weeping silently, and 1 pondering, in his elbow chair. Miss Murd- I stone, who was busy at her writing-desk, | which was covered with letters and papers, ; gave me her cold finger-nails, and asked ; ir.e, in an iron whisper, if 1 had been meas i ured for my mourning. I said, “Yes.” “And your shirts,” said Miss Murdstone, [ “ have you brought ’em home ?” “Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all mj’ clothes.” This was all the consolation that her firmness administered to me. I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in exhibiting what she called her self-com mand, and her firmness, and her strength of mind, and her common sense, and the whole diabolical catalogue of her unamia ble qualities, on such an occasion. She was particularly proud of her turn for bu siness: and she showed it now, in reducing everything to pen and ink, and being mov ed by nothing. All the rest of the day, and from morning to night afterwards, she sat at that desk: scratching composedly | with a hard pen, speaking in the same im purturbable whisper to everybody ; never relaxing a muscle of her face, or softening a tone of her voice, or appearing with an 1 atom of her dress astray. Her brother took a book sometimes, hut never read it, that I saw. He would open it and look at it as if he were reading, but would remain for a whole hour without turning the leaf, and then put it down and walk to and fro in the room. I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and counting his footsteps, hour after hour.— He very seldom spoke to her, and never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing, except rite clocks, in the whole mo tionless house. In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peggotty, except that, in pass j ing up or down stairs, I always found her i close to the room where my mother and her ] baby lay, and except that she came to me I every night, and sat by my bed’s head while l went to sleep. A day or two before the ; burial—l think it was a day or two before, | but I am conscious of confusion in my | mind about that heavy time, with nothing ; to mark its progress —she took me into the room. I only recollect, that underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness around it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have turned the cov er gently back, I cried, “Oh, no! oh, no!” and held her hand. If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better. The very air of the best parlor, when 1 went in at the door, the bright condition of the fire, the shining of j the wine in the decanters, the patterns of j the glasses and plates, the faint, sweet ! smell of the cake, Ihe odor of Miss Murd ; stone's dress, and our black clothes. Mr. ; Chillip is in the room, and comes to speak | to me. “ And how is Master David ?” he says | ; kindly. I cannot tell him very well. ( give him 1 my hand, which he holds in his. “Dear me!” says Mr. Chillip, meekly j | smiling, with something shining in his , ! eye. “Our little friends grow up around : ! us. They grow out of our knowledge. ’ i ma’am!” This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply. “ There is a great improvement here. 1 | ma’am!” says Mr. Chillip. Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal bend: Mr. Chillip, dis comfitted, goes to a corner, keeping me with him, and opens his mouth no more. I remark this, because I remark every thing that happens, not because 1 rare about myself, or have done since 1 came , home. And now the hell begins to sound, j and Mr. Omer and another come to make | us ready. As Peggotty was wont to tell ; tnc, long ago, the followers of my father j to the same grave were made ready in the j same room. There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbor i Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip, and t. When j we get out to the door, the bearers and : their load are in the garden; and they I move before us down the path, and past j the elms, and through the gate, and into ; the church-yard where I have so often j heard the birds sing on a summer morning, j We stand around the grave. The day | seems different to me “from every other day. and the light not of the same color. Now there is a solemn hush, which we have \ brought with us from home with what is in the mould; and while we stand bare headed, I hear the voice of the clergyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet distinct and plain, saying: “ I am the Re i surrection and the Life, saith the Lord !” Then I hear sobs; and, standing apart from j the lookers-on, I see the good and faithful ! servant, whom of all people on earth 1 love best, and unto whom my childish 1 heart is certain the Lord will one day say, “ Well done.” There are many faces that 1 know among the little crowd; faces that 1 knew in church when mine was always wanting there i faces that first saw my mother when she first came to the village in her youthful bloom. Ido not mind them—l mind noth ing but my grief—and yet I see and know them all: and even in the back-ground, far j away, see Minne looking on, and her eye ! glancing on her sweet-heart, who is near I me. It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we lurn to come away. Before us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged, so linked in my mind with the young idea of what is gone, that all my sorrow has been nothing to the sorrow it calls forth. But they take me on ; and Mr. Chillip talks to me ; and when we get home, puts some wa ter to my lips; and when I ask leave to go to my room, dismisses me with the gentle ness of a woman. All this, I say, is yesterday’s event. E- I vents of later date have floated from me to the shore where all forgotten things will re appear, but this stands like a high rock in the ocean. I knew that Peggoly would come to me in my room. The Sabbath stillncs of the time (the day was so like Sunday ! 1 have forgotten that) was suited to us both. She rat down by my side upon my little bed ; and holding my hand, and sometimes put ting it to her lips, and sometimes smoothing it with hers, as she might have comforted my little, brother, told me, in her way, that she had to tell me concerning what had happened. “She was never well,” said Peggoty. “for a long time. She was uncertain in her mind, and not happy. When her ba by was horn, I thought at first she would get better, hut she was more delicate, and sank a little every day. She used to like to sit alone before her baby came, and then she cried; hut afterwards she used to sing to it—so soft, that I once thought, when I heard her, it was a voice up in the air, that was rising away. “ I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-like, of late ; and that a hard word was like a blow to her. But she was always the same to me. She nev er changed to her foolish Peggoty, dhln’t my sweet girl ” Here Peggoty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a little while. “The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the night when you came home, my dear. The day you went away she said to me, ‘I never shall see my pret ty darling again. Something tells me so that tells the truth, I know.’ “ She tried to hold up after that; and many a time, when they told her she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made believe to be so ; but it was all bygone then. She never told her husband what she had told me—she was afraid of saying it to any body else—till one night, a little more than a week before it happened, when she said to him : ‘My dear 1 think I am dying.’ “ * It’s ofT my mind now, Peggoty,’ she told me, when I laid her down i.i her bed that night. 1 lie will believe it more and more, poor fellow, every day for a few days to come ; and then it will be past. I am very tired. If this is sleep, sit by me while 1 sleep: don’t leave me. God bless both my children ! God protect and keep my fatherless boy!’ “ I never left her afterward,” said Peg goty. “ She often talked to them twodown stairs—for she loved them; she couldn’t hear not to love any one who was about her—but when they went away from her bedside, she always turned to me, asif there was rest where Peggoty was, and never fell asleep in any other way. “On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and said: ‘lf my baby should die too, Peggoty, please let them lay him in my arms, and bury us together.’ (It was done; for the poor lamb lived but a day be yond her.) ‘ Let my dearest boy go with us to our resting-place,’ she said, ‘and tell him that his mother blessed him not once, but a thousand times.’ Another silence followed this, and anoth er gentle beating on my hand. “It was pretty far in the night,” said Peggoty, “ when she asked me for some drink ; and when she had taken it, gave !me such a patient smile, the dear!—so ■ beautiful!- “ Daybreak had come, and the sun was ; rising, when she said, how kind and con- siderate Dir. Coppertield had always been ‘ to her, and how he had borne with her, and told her, when she doubted herself, that a ’ loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a happy man in hers. ‘Peggoty, my dear u she said then, put me nearer to you,’ for she was very ; weak. ‘Lay your good arm underneath [ my head,’ she said, ‘and turn me to you. ■ for your face is going far off, and I want it |to be near.’ I put it as she asked and oh Davy! the time had come when my first parting words to you were true—where she was glad to lay her poor head on her stu pid cross old l’eggotty's arm—and she died like a child that had gone to sleep !” Thus ended Peggolty’s narration. From 1 the moment of my knowing of the death of my mother, the idefti of her as she had been Jof late had vanished from me. I remem ■ be red her, from that instant, only as the ! young mother of my earliest impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight ill the parlor. What Peggotty had told me now, was so far from bringing me back to the latter period, that it rooted the earliest image in my mind. It may be curious, but it is true. In her death she winged her way back to her calm un troubled youth, and cancelled all the rest. The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy ; the little crea ture in her arms, was myself, as I had once i been, hushed forever on her bosom. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. A VINDICATION OF THE PROFESSION OF LAWYERS. BY HON. B. F. IOUTER. When the House of Commons took the ! affair in their own hands, and voted that such actions were contempts, and breaches of privilege, that resolute defender of the privileges of freeman sustained the right of ! these parties to discharge under habeas cor pus-declaring that this imprisonment was not such as the freemen of England ought to submit to. When summoned in person by the Speaker, to answer for this declara tion, he ordered the Speaker away, saying, I sit here as the interpreter of the laws, | and as a distributor of justice.” Pitt has been lauded justly as a great friend of the United States, in their strug gle. But he was not exclusively so. The name of Lord Camden deserves to be re membered by Americans, and by every friend of constitutional liberty, with pecu liar veneration. He begun his caieer at the Bar at a time when the administration, no longer permitted to use the axe, protect ! ed itself, under corrupt agents, by attacks (upon the liberty of speech—by prosecu tions for libel, on the occasion of every ’ publication of a sentiment reflecting upon the action of government. Lord Camden I then originated and maintained the- doc i trine, thought to be of such value to the rights of the people, to be incorporated in to constitutions, that on trials of cases of libel against government, the jury were judges of law and of fact. Raised by’ his great talents to the post of Attorney Gene ral, and given a seat m Parliament, his very first act there was one of opposition to the prerogative of the Crown. The Court of King’s Bench decided that the statute of Habeas Corpus, of Charles 11, I did not embrace a case of a party impressed for the King's service. Against that deci sion, Camden, then Piatt, prepared and ad vocated a bill to explain the statute, and correct the decision. “He declaied him* self,” says Walpole, “ for the utmost lati. tude of the Habeas Corpus; and it reflected no small honor on him, that the first advo cate of the Crown should apffear as the firmest champion against prerogative.”