relief of history, most pure, most respectable, most sublime; and I doubt not, that by a suffrage approaching to unanimity, the answer would be, Washington!

I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened moment of the state, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies and the misgiving of friends—I turn to that transcendant name for courage and for consolation. To him who denies, or doubts, whether our fervid liberty can be combined with law, with order, with the security of property, with the pursuits and advancement of happiness -to him who denies that our institutions are capable of producing exaltation of soul and the passion of true glory -to him who denies that we have contributed anything to the stock of great lessons and great examples-to all these I reply by pointing to Washington!

BEFORE I come to the last magnificent paragraph, let me call the attention of those who, possibly, think themselves capable of judging of the dignity and character of justice in this country;-let me call the attention of those who arrogantly, perhaps, presume that they understand what the features, what the duties of justice are here and in India; let them learn a lesson from this great statesman, this enlarged, this liberal philosopher :-"I hope I shall not depart from the simplicity of official language, in saying, that the Majesty of Justice ought to be approached with solicitation, not descend to provoke or invite it, much less to debase itself by the suggestion of wrongs, and the promise of redress, with the denunciation of punishment before trial, and even before accusation." This is the exhortation which Mr. Hastings makes to his Counsel. This is the character which he gives of British justice.

But I will ask your Lordships, do you approve this representation? Do you feel that this is the true image of Justice? Is this the character of British Justice? Are

these her features? Is this her countenance? Is this her gait or her mien? No; I think even now I hear you calling upon me to turn from this vile libel, this base caricature, this Indian pagod, formed by the hand of guilty and knavish tyranny, to dupe the heart of ignorance, to turn from this deformed idol to the true Majesty of Justice here. Here, indeed, I see a different form, enthroned by the sovereign hand of Freedom,-awful, without severity-commanding, without pride-vigilant and active, without restlessness or suspicion-searching and inquisitive, without meanness or debasement-not arrogantly scorning to stoop to the voice of afflicted innocence, and in its loveliest attitude when bending to uplift the suppliant at its feet.

It is by the majesty, by the form of that justice, that I do conjure and implore your Lordships, to give your minds to this great business; that I exhort you to look, not so much to words which may be denied or quibbled away, but to the plain facts, to weigh and consider the testimony in your own minds: we know the result must be inevitable. Let the truth appear, and our cause is gained. It is this— I conjure your Lordships, for your own honour, for the honour of the nation, for the honour of human nature, now entrusted to your care,-it is this duty that the Commons of England, speaking through us, claim at your hands.

They exhort you to it by every thing that calls sublimely upon the heart of man-by the majesty of that Justice which this bold man has libelled-by the wide fame of your tribunal-by the sacred pledge by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision: knowing that that decision will then bring you the highest rewards that ever blessed the heart of man-the consciousness of having done the greatest act of mercy for the world, that the earth has ever yet received from any hand but Heaven. My Lords, I have done.

LESSON LXXXII.

Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan.—BURKE.

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 pulpit, have hitherto furnished, nothing has equalled what we have this day heard.

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.

LESSON LXXXIII.

The Battle of Ivry.-T. B. MACAuley.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vales, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance

of war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn

of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy Name and Henry of Navarre.

The king has come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest;

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein,

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-the Flemish Count is slain ;

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail;

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man;

But out spake gentle Henry, then, "No Frenchman is my foe;

Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return :

Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.