teristic of the man. His imagination was apt to lead captive his reason, to inflame his passions, and to carry him away as on the wings of a storm. He did nothing by halves, and there was no resisting the outbursts of his impetuosity. Impelled by conscientious feelings, though directed by mistaken opinions, a moral power increased the force of the excitement. Hastings, no doubt, had been unrighteous in his administration of Indian affairs, but he was hardly the culprit that Burke made him out to be. The scene of the trial was Westminster Hall; and never since the days of Lord Strafford and King Charles the First had that edifice witnessed such an array of judicial state. It was fitted up with scarlet hangings, and was surrounded by military pomp. Grenadiers guarded the entrance, and cavalry kept the streets. Peers, in robes of velvet and ermine, were conducted by heralds to their appointed seats. The twelve judges were present in full judicial costume. On green benches, with tables, sat members of the House of Commons, and in a box, especially appropriated for their use, were the conductors of the impeachment. Fox, Sheridan, Windham, and Grey were of the number, all in court dresses. Burke, in like manner attired, was foremost among them. The audience, too, was worthy of the occasion and the actors. It was an assemblage of the beauty, chivalry, and talent of the land. Princesses and peeressess, generals and captains, authors and artists, together with ambassadors from foreign courts, crowded the seats appropriated for spectators. The serjeants made proclamation. Hastings knelt at the bar, while his counsel, including high legal names-Law, Dallas, and Plumer -were at his side. The charges were read. It took two days to read them a process which, tedious as it was, did not diminish the interest felt in the proceedings. On the third day Burke commenced his harangue. It was a wonderful effort, full of ingenious argument, pictorial description, splendid imagery, and resistless appeals, now swelling into terror, now melting into

pathos. The ladies wept; there were hysterical sobs; Mrs. Sheridan fainted; and even the heart of the stern chancellor was moved. At last came the thunder-clap:-"I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors; I impeach him in the name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed; I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied; I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under-foot, and whose country he has turned into a desert; lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the common enemy and oppressor of all." It was a speech which admirers of rhetorical eloquence rank with Demosthenes' Crown oration.

We must return, before we conclude, to the private life of this eminent man. After he had obtained his rural retreat at Beaconsfield, where he followed his early predilections for agricultural pursuits, and soothed his mind amidst sylvan scenes after the chafings and irritations of political controversy, his residences in London were only temporary and often changed. We find him during the sittings of parliament occupying houses in the Broad Sanctuary, Westminster; Fludyer-street; Charles-street; Dukestreet; and Gerard-street. One of these residences is associated with a well-known story. While staying in Charles-street, he was visited one day by a young man, who with a rich genius had an empty purse. He had come to London as a literary adventurer, and had exhausted all the little stock of money he could scrape together. He wrote a volume of poems, but he had no name to recommend it. In his distress he went to an opulent peer, who did not refuse his patronage, but passed by in total neglect the poet's application for pecuniary aid. The young man thought of Mr. Burke, and wrote a letter to him, "hearing," he said, "that he was a good man, and presuming to think that he was a great one."

He went with a full heart to Charles-street, and there left the letter. He said, "The night after I delivered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of agitation that I walked Westminster Bridge backwards and forwards until daylight!" The commoner, with far less ample means, did what the nobleman refused. He helped the young man, gave him eriticism and advice, sent round members of his family to get subscriptions for his work, introduced him to men of influence, and opened to him a door that led to fame and fortune. The young man was the poet Crabbe, and it was not without tears that he used to tell of Mr. Burke's kindness.

One more locality we must visit. Brompton is a neighbourhood where, formerly more than now, consumptive invalids were wont to repair. Thither many a parent has conveyed his child as a last hope; and as we walk through its squares and streets, we feel an air of melancholy come over us, at the thought of domestic joys there crushed-of fair blossoms of promise there torn away. Burke had a son he loved with his whole heart. Disease laid its hand upon him, and the father took him to Cromwell House at Brompton. Here he sunk and died. That blow nearly broke the great man's heart. He never recovered from it. As we go down the gloomy lane by Cromwell House, we are led to ruminate on those pathetic passages in Burke's letter to a noble lord, in which he gives way to his parental grief: "The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honours; I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. I greatly deceive myself if, in this hard season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honour in the world. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me. They who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of ancestors." Poor Burke! Writing to a friend, he said, "Mrs. Burke seeks