The excesses at Bristol could not, possibly, be passed over, and a Commission, consisting of the Lord Chief Justice and two judges, met on January 2nd, to try the rioters. Various sentences of transportation and imprisonment were passed, and four men were hanged on January 27th. They were Christopher Davis, convicted of having encouraged the mob to commit acts of plunder and desolation; William Clarke, for having assisted in destroying the Gaol and Bridewell; and Joseph Kayes and Thomas Gregory, for having formed part of a mob that pillaged and burnt two dwelling-houses. Davis had retired from his business, which was that of a carrier, and in which he had amassed about £2000. Clarke, who had connections possessing considerable property, was a sawyer; the other two were common labourers. Colonel Brereton was court martialed for firing on the rioters, which so preyed upon his mind, that he shot himself on January 14th, during his trial. Another Commission sat at Nottingham to try the rioters there, and three men were hanged. Parliament met on December 6, 1831, and, of course, the principal business of the Session was the Reform Bill. But there were social as well as Parliamentary reforms urgently needed, one of which was the employment of children in factories, which had been much abused. Petitions poured in, in favour of shorter working hours for them, and other ameliorations of their condition. Richard Oastler, popularly known as "The Factory King," a staunch Tory and Churchman, and one of the most popular political leaders among the working-men in the West Riding of Yorkshire, championed their cause; and I will give an extract from a speech of his at a meeting held at Huddersfield, to petition Parliament on their behalf. Said he-- "Take, then, a little captive, and I will not picture fiction to you, but I will tell you what I have seen. Take a little captive six years old; she shall rise from her bed at four o'clock in the morning, of a cold winter's day; but, before that, she wakes, perhaps half a dozen times, and says, 'Father, is it time? Father, is it time?' And, at last, when she gets up, and puts her little bits of rags upon her weary limbs--weary with the last day's work--she trudges onward, through rain and snow, to the mill, perhaps two miles, or, at least, one mile; and there, for thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, or even eighteen hours, she is obliged to work, with only thirty minutes interval. (Shame.) The girl I am speaking of died; but she dragged on that dreadful existence for several years. Homewards again at night she would go, when she was able; but, many a time she hid herself in the wool at the mill, as she had not strength to go. (Hear.) But this is not an isolated case. I wish it were." A correspondent writing to the _Times_, March 16, says--