If a fair estimate were at any moment to be taken of the time employed in the real business of the country, and that consumed by public characters in vindicating their conduct, recapitulating their good intentions, and glossing over their had acts, it would be found that the former was to the latter as the ratio of Falstaff's bread to the “sack.”

A British House of Commons is in fact nineteen out of every twenty hours employed in the pleasant personalities of attack and defence. It is something that the “noble baron” said last session, or the “right hon. baronet” did n't say in the present one, engrosses all their attention; and the most animated debates are about certain expressions of some “honourable and learned gentleman,” who always uses his words in a sense different from the rest of the nation.

If this satisfies the public and stuffs the newspapers, perhaps I should not repine at it; but certainly it is very fatiguing and tiresome to any man with a moderately good memory to preserve the excellent traditions each ministry retains of their own virtues, and how eloquently the opposition can hold forth upon the various good things they would have done, had they been left quietly on the treasury benches. Now how much better and more business-like would it be if, instead of leaving these gentlemen to dilate and expatiate on their own excellent qualities, some public standards were to be established, by which at a glance the world at large could decide on their merits and examine into their fitness for office at a future period. Your butler and your coachman, when leaving your service, do not present themselves to a new master with characters of their own inditing, or if they did they would unquestionably require a very rigid scrutiny. What would you say if a cook who professes herself a perfect treasure of economy and excellence, warrants herself sober, amiable, and cleanly—who, without other vouchers for her fitness than her own, would dilate on her many virtues and accomplishments, and demand to be taken into your service because she has higher taste for self-panegyric than her rival. Such a thing would be preposterous in the kitchen, but it is exactly what takes place in parliament, and there is but one remedy for it. Let her majesty's servants, when they leave their places, receive written characters, like those of less exalted persons. These documents would then be on record when the applicants sought other situations, and could be referred to with more confidence by the nation than if given by the individuals themselves.

How easily would the high-flown sentiments of any of the “outs” be tested by a simple comparison with his last character—how clearly would pretension be measured by what he had done in his last place. No long speeches, no four-hour addresses would be required at the hustings then. Show us your character, would be the cry—why did he leave his mistress? the question.

The petty subterfuges of party would not stand such a test as this; all the little miserable explanations—that it was a quarrel in the kitchen, that the cook said this and the footman said that, would go for nothing. You were turned out, and why?—that's the bone and sinew of the matter.

To little purpose would my Lord John remind his party that he was going to do every thing for every body—to plunder the parsons and pay the priests—to swamp the constitution and upset the church—respectable people would take time to look at his papers; they would see that he was an active little busy man, accustomed to do the whole work of a family single-handed; that he was in many respects attentive and industrious, but had a following of low Irish acquaintances whom he let into the house on every occasion, and that then nothing escaped them—they smashed the furniture, broke the looking-glasses, and kicked up a regular row: for this he was discharged, receiving all wages due.

And then, instead of suffering long-winded panegyrics from the member for Tiverton, how easily would the matter be comprehended in one line—“a good servant, lively, and intelligent, but self-sufficient, and apt to take airs. Turned off for quarrelling with the French valet next door, and causing a difference between the families.”

Then again, how decisively the merits of a certain ex-chancellor might be measured in reading—“hired as butler, but insisted on cleaning the carriage, and scratched the panels; would dress the dinner, and spoiled the soup and burned the sauce; never attended to his own duties, but spent his time fighting with the other servants, and is in fact a most troublesome member of a household. He is, however, both smart and intelligent, and is allowed a small pension to wait on company days.”

Trust me, this plan, if acted on—and I feel it cannot be long neglected—will do more to put pretension on a par with desert, than all the adjourned debates that waste the sessions; it would save a world of unblushing self-praise and laudation, and protect the country from the pushing impertinence of a set of turned-off servants.