plaintiffs should not go without paying costs of suit.'

Thus spoke the chief justice, with a warmth of feeling which went to the heart of every spectator. Several of the senators delivered their sentiments in terms a little different, but

to the same purpose with their head; and only one or two remained still under the cloud of prejudice, but did not venture to say one word.
The spectators could not contain their joy, but shouted as at a bullfight, or any other of the superb spectacles of Spain. Most of the windows of Sevile were that evening illuminated, and bonefires blazed in every corner of the city, while health and prosperity was drunk to the prince Ferdinand of Dorando.
Stung to the quick, the Arvidoso train gnashed their teeth in rage and despair. They however carried their cause by appeal, before the grandees of Spain at Madrid; but it only served to make their desperate scheme fall upon their own heads with redoubled vengeance. That illustrious assembly could hardly hear them

with patience. One of the grandees muttered, that the Arvidoso party had said strong things,—that they had a heavy memorial.—
'Heavy! cryed the chancellor of Spain, with a violence that made his brother shrink within himself.—Heavy! yes it is heavy; but heavy as was chaos,'
Nec quicquam, nise pondus iners, congestaque eodem
Non bene junctarum discordia semina rerum.

An illustrious grandee—the greatest minister that Spain ever saw, and whose eloquence vied with that of the orators of Greece and Rome, rose up, and looking around him with a piercing eye—he thus began—
'Though long accustomed to hold with a steady hand the balance of Europe, and mark the fate of nations; I confess, most mighty signors, that I have at no time been more affected than I now am by

this private question—Private, did I say?—I recall the expression—It is a question of the most public nature—in the event of which every thing that is dear and valuable to humanity is concerned—What is Spain? What is our country? It is not the valleys though ever so gay—It is not the fields, though ever so rich, that attach us to our native land—No. It is our family—It is our wives—It is our children—And what have we before us? A daring attempt to render our children uncertain. If adulterers have been thought worthy of death, what punishment do those deserve, who would introduce what is still more dangerous to society? A few wives may be unfaithful; but every wife may be attacked like the princess of Dorando. Have we not here

the constant acknowledgment of parents unredargued, unconcussed;