The new House of Lords is a superb specimen of modern art; and, in every way, is worthy of the hereditary Senate of the British Empire. Perhaps it is too small for full effect, and yet, if larger, it would hardily answer the purposes of speaking and hearing. Its dimensions, however, are symbolical of its character, as intended for the use of a very select assembly; and would seem to indicate, moreover, (to copy once more the manner of Fuller,) that the Whigs are not to reign forever, seeing that if such as my Lord John Russell should long continue in power, there would need be built a much larger hall to contain all the broken lawyers, hack politicians, Popish Bishops, and rich Jews, who might justly expect, from former examples, to be fitted up with coronets, coats of arms, and patents of nobility. The like idea seems to obtain, moreover, in the decorations of the hall, in which History is artfully blended with Religion and Chivalry; implying, if my republican comprehension can rightly interpret this writing on the wall, that to be a true patrician, one must have historical antecedents, and should represent some great fact in the annals of one’s country; and that such antecedents, to be made honourable to an individual, must be sustained by personal worth, and by that refined and sublimated virtue which is called honour. Thus, for example, a Nelson or a Wellington is a nobleman by the historic origin of his family, although of modern date; while, with respect to “all the blood of all the Howards,” it is equally true, that if devoid of corresponding traits of magnanimity and honesty, its degenerate inheritor is, after all, only fit to be hooted at as a poltroon and a villain. This principle I fully understand, American as I am. I feel that something is due to the worthy representative of a name illustrious in the annals of a great nation; but your mere Lord Moneybags, or the spiritless and unprincipled shadow of a name that was once right-honourable, are creatures with whose acquaintance I should feel it somewhat discreditable to be bored. Every man who has moral worth, and who respects himself accordingly, must entertain a degree of honest contempt for such company, somewhat akin to that of good old Johnson, in his thread-bare coat, when he wrote his inimitable letter to Chesterfield.