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*preserving the method of nature in the conduct of the state, in what we improve we are never wholly new ; in what we retain we are never wholly obsolete.-By adhering in this manner and on these principles to our forefathers, we are guided, not by the superstition. of antiquaries, but by the spirit of philosophic analogy. In this choice of inheritance we have given to our frame of polity the image of a relation in blood ;binding up the constitution of our country with our dearest domestic ties ;-adopting our fundamental laws into the bosom of our family affections; keeping inseparable, and cherishing with the warmth of all their combined and mutually reflected charities,. our state, our healths, our sepulchres, and our altars.
Mr Sheridan's Invective against Mr 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 burnt up and extinguished-of villages depopulated and in ruin-of temples unroofed and perishing-of reservoirs broken down and dry, --he would naturally enquire what war has thus laid waste the fertile fields. of this once beautiful and opulent country--what civil dissentions 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 ravished 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
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 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 these Begums in their secluded Ze
nana? 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 never made to be the property of man; but that when through pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannise 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 independant qualities of his race.
Mr. Burke's Panegyric on the Eloquence of Mr. Sheridan.
Mr. Sheridan 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 aunals 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 cloquence 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.
Junius's Eulogium on Lord Chatham.
I DID not intend to make a public declaration of the respect I bear lord Chatham. I well knew what
unworthy conclusions would be drawn from it. But I am called upon to deliver my opinion; and surely it is not in the little censure of Mr Horne to deter me from doing signal justice to a man, who, I confess, has grown upon my esteem. As for the common, sordid views of avarice, or any purpose of vulgar ambition, I question whether the applause of Junius would be of service to lord Chatham. My voice will hardly recommend him to an increase of his pension, or to a seat in the cabinet. But if his ambition be upon a level with his understanding; if he judges of what is truely honourable for himself, with the same superior genius which animates and directs him to eloquence in debate, to wisdom in decision, even the pen of Junius shall contribute to reward him. Recorded honours shall gather round his monument, and thicken over him. It is a solid fabric, and will support the laurels that adorn it. I am not conversant in the language of panegyric. These praises are extorted from me; but they will wear well, for they have been dearly earned.
Cicero and Demosthenes compared.
THESE two great princes of eloquence have been often compared together; but the judgment hesitates to which to give the preference. The archbishop of Cambray, however, seems to have stated their merits with great justice and perspicuity, in his reflections on rhetoric and poetry. The passage, translated; is as follows.
"I do not hesitate to declare, that I think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am persuaded that no one can admire Cicero-more than I do. He adorns whatever he attempts. He does honour to language. He disposes of words in a manner peculiar to him