V.—SHERIDAN'S INVECTIVE AGAINST HASTINGS. HAD a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla, that man, who, with a savage heart, had still great lines of character, and who, with all his ferocity in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the riches which it derived from benignant skies and a prolific soil-if this stranger, ignorant of all that had happened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene of plains unclothed and brown-of vegetables burned up and extinguished-of villages depopulated, and in ruins of temples unroofed and perishing-of reservoirs broken down and dry, he would naturally inquire, what war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country-what civil dissensions have happened, thus to tear asunder and separate the happy societies that once possessed those villages-what disputed succession-what religious rage has, with unholy violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent, but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its duties ? What merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and sword-what severe visitation of Providence has dried up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth every vestige of verdure? Or, rather, what monsters have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour? To such questions, what must be the answer? No wars have ravaged these lands, and depopulated these villages-no civil discords have been felt-no disputed succession no religious rage-no merciless enemy-no affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged for the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation-no voracious and poisoning monsters-no, all this has been accomplished by the friendship, generosity, and kindness of the English nation. They have embraced us with their protecting arms, and, lo! those are the fruits of their alliance. What, then, shall we be told, that under such circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus

goaded and spurred on to clamour and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the Begums! When we hear the description of the paroxysm, fever, and delirium, into which despair had thrown the wretched natives, when on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, they tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds, to accelerate their dissolution, and, while their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to heaven, breathing their last and fervent prayer, that the dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their country; will it be said that this was brought about by the incantations of those Begums in their secluded Zenana? or that they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair into the breasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no torture? What motive, then, could have such influence in their bosom? What motive? That which nature, the common parent, plants in the bosom of man, and which, though it may be less active in the Indian than in the Englishman, is still congenial with, and makes part of his being,-that feeling which tells him, that man was never made to be the property of man; but that when, through pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped, and resistance is a duty, that feeling which tells him that all power is delegated for the good, not for the injury of the people, and that when it is converted from the original purpose, the compact is broken, and the right is to be resumed,-that principle which tells him that resistance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to himself, and to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which He gave him in the creation!-to that common God, who, where he gives the form of man, whatever may be the complexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man-that principle, which neither the rudeness of ignorance can stifle, nor the enervation of refinement extinguish!-that principle, which makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought

to act, which tending to preserve to the species the original designations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, and vindicates the independent quality of his race.

VI.-SHERIDAN'S EULOGIUM ON FOX.

UPON the one great subject, which at this moment, I am confident, has possession of the whole feelings of every man whom I address-the loss, the irreparable loss, of the great, the illustrious character, whom we all deplore —I shall, I can say-but little. A long interval must take place between the heavy blow which has been struck, and the consideration of its effect, before any one (and how many are there!) of those who have revered and loved Mr. Fox, as I have done, can speak of his death with the feeling, but manly composure, which becomes the dignified regret it ought to inspire. To say anything to you at this moment, in the fresh hour of your unburthened sorrows-to depict, to dwell upon the great traits of his character-must be unnecessary, and almost insulting. His image still lives before your eyes-his virtues are in your hearts-his loss is your despair. I have seen in a public print, what are stated to have been his last words, and they are truly stated. They were these: "I die happy." Then, turning to the more immediate objects of his private affections, he added, "but I pity you." Gentlemen, this statement is precisely true. But, oh! if the solemn fleeting hour had allowed of such considerations, and if the unassuming nature of his dignified mind had not withheld him, which of you will allow his title to have said, not only to the sharers of his domestic love, hanging in mute despair upon his couch, "I pity you;" but prophetically to have added, "I pity England-I pity Europe-I pity human nature." He died in the spirit of peace, tranquil in his own expiring heart, and cherishing to the last, with a parental solicitude, the consoling hope that he should be able to give established tranquillity to harassed contending nations. Let us trust that that stroke of death which has borne him from us, may not

have left the peace of the world, and the civilized charities of man, as orphans upon the earth. With such a man, to have battled in the cause of genuine liberty-with such a man, to have struggled against the inroads of oppression and corruption-with such an example before me, to have to boast that I never in my life gave one vote in Parliament that was not on the side of freedom, is the congratulation that attends the retrospect of my public life. His friendship was the pride and honour of my days. I never, for one moment, regretted to share with him the difficulties, the calumnies, and sometimes even the dangers, that attended his honourable life. And now, reviewing my past political conduct (were the option possible that I should retread the path), I solemnly and deliberately declare, that I would pursue the same course, bear up under the same pressure, abide by the same principles, and remain by his side an exile from power, distinction, and emolument. If I have missed the opportunity of obtaining all the support I might, perhaps, have had, on the present occasion, from a very scrupulous delicacy, which I think became, and was incumbent upon me, I cannot repent it. In so doing, I acted on the feelings upon which I am sensible all those would have acted who loved Mr. Fox as I did. I felt within myself, that while the slightest aspiration might still quiver on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, wisdom, and benevolence—that while one drop of life's blood might still warm that heart, which throbbed only for the good of mankind-I should not, I could not have acted otherwise.

Gentlemen, the hour is not far distant, when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your revered patriot are passing through your streets to that sepulchral home, where your kings, your heroes, your sages, and your poets, will be honoured by an association with his mortal remains. At that hour, when the sad solemnity shall take place, in a private way, as more suited to the simple dignity of his character, than the splendid gaudiness of public pageantry; when you (all of you), shall be self-marshalled in reverential sorrow

mute, and reflecting on your mighty loss-at that moment shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of such a scene? Is it fitting that any man should overlook the crisis, and risk the monstrous and disgusting contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man?

VII.-BURKE'S PANEGYRIC ON SHERIDAN. He has this day surprised the thousands who hung with rapture on his accents, by such an array of talents, such an exhibition of capacity, such a display of powers, as are unparalleled in the annals of oratory, -a display, that reflected the highest honour on himself-lustre upon letters -renown upon parliament-glory upon the country. Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or modern times; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, the solidity of the judgment-seat, and the sacred morality of the pulpits, have hitherto furnished, nothing has equalled what we have this day heard in Westminster Hall. No holy seer of religion, no statesman, no orator, no man of any literary description whatever, has come up, in the one instance, to the pure sentiments of morality, or, in the other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and sublimity of conception, to which we this day listened, with ardour and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence, there is not a species of composition, of which a complete and perfect specimen might not, from that single speech, be culled and collected.

VIII.-BURKE ON THE RIGHT OF TAXING
AMERICA.

"OH! inestimable right! Oh! wonderful, transcendent right, the assertion of which has cost this country thirteen provinces, six islands, one hundred thousand lives, and seventy millions of money! Oh! invaluable right! for