"Long before the late invasion, the persons who are objects of the grant of publick money now before you had so diverted the supply of the pious funds of culture and population, that every where the reservoirs were fallen into a miserable decay. But after those domestick enemies had provoked the entry of a cruel foreign foe into the country, he did not leave it, until his revenge had completed the destruction begun by their avarice. Few, very few indeed, of these magazines of water that are not either totally destroyed, or cut through with such gaps, as to require a serious attention and much cost to re-establish them, as the means of present subsistence to the people, and of future revenue to the state."

Or that still more wonderful passage which describes the invasion of Hyder Ali:

"When at length Hyder Ali found that he had to do with men who either would sign no convention, or whom no treaty and no signature could bind, and who were the determined enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed to make the country possessed by these incorrigible and predestinated criminals a memorable example to mankind. He resolved, in the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of such things, to leave the whole Carnatick an everlasting monument of vengeance, and to put perpetual desolation as a barrier between him and those, against whom the faith which holds the moral elements of the world together was no protection. He became at length so confident of his force, so collected in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every enemy, and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in their common detestation against the creditors of the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction; and compounding all the materials of fury, havock, and desolation, into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains. Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened all their horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down the whole of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatick-Then ensued a scene of woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrours of war before known or heard of, were mercy to that new havock. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, consumed every house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants flying from their flaming villages, in part were slaughtered; others, without regard to sex, to age, to the respect of rank, or sacredness of function, fathers torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the goading spears of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept into captivity in an unknown and hostile land. Those who were able to evade this tempest, fled to the walled cities. But escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of famine."

After all, these extracts are not the most powerful that might have been selected. The "Reflections on the French Revolution" is the work which furnishes the most brilliant and in the greatest number; but as that is familiar to almost every one, it would be superfluous to quote from it.

We shall conclude these extracts with the description of the chamber of Regicide. It is from the first of the "Letters on a Regicide Peace." The ambassadours of all the crowned heads in Europe are humbly waiting in the anti-room, till it shall please the grim tyrant to indulge them with an audience. The pencil of Dominichino never drew a darker or sublimer picture.

"To those who do not love to contemplate the fall of human greatness, I do not know a more mortifying spectacle, than to see the assembled majesty of the crowned heads of Europe waiting as patient suitors in the anti-chamber of regicide. They wait, it seems, until the sanguinary tyrant Carnot shall have snorted away the fumes of the indigested blood of his sovereign. Then, when, sunk on the down of usurped pomp, he shall have sufficiently indulged his meditations with what monarch he shall next glut his ravening maw, he may condescend to signify that it is his pleasure to be awake; and that he is at leisure to receive the proposals of his high and mighty clients for the terms on which he may respite the execution of the sentence he has passed upon them. At the opening of those doors, what a sight it must be to behold the plenipotentiaries of royal impotence, in the precedency which they will intrigue to obtain, and which will be granted to them according to the seniority of their degradation,

sneaking into the regicide presence, and with the relicks of the smile, which they had dressed up for the levee of their masters, still flickering on their curled lips, presenting the faded remains of their courtly graces, to meet the scornful, ferocious, sardonick grin of a bloody ruffian, who, whilst he is receiving their homage, is measuring them with his eye, and fitting to their size the slider of his guillotine! These ambassadours may easily return as good courtiers as they went; but can they ever return from that degrading residence loyal and faithful subjects, or with any true affection to their master, or true attachment to the constitution, religion, or laws of their country? There is great danger that they, who enter smiling into this Triphonian cave, will come out of it sad and serious conspirators; and such will continue as long as they live. They will become true conductors of contagion to every country which has had the misfortune to send them to the source of that electricity. At best they will become totally indifferent to good and evil, to one institution or another. This species of indifference is but too generally distinguishable in those who have been much employed in foreign courts; but in the present case the evil must be aggravated without measure; for they go from their country, not with the pride of the old character, but in a state of the lowest degradation; and what must happen in their place of residence can have no effect in raising them to the level of true dignity, or of chaste self-estimation, either as men, or as representatives of crowned heads."

These are but a small specimen. His whole works teem with passages equally splendid; and indeed the only difficulty in making extracts is that of selection.

The moral character of Burke will bear comparison with that of any public man of his age. From every form of those grosser vices, which so deeply tainted many of his contemporaries, he seems to have been perfectly free. This is to be attributed partly to a careful education, partly to a happy moderation of mind, partly to the ascendancy of his intellect over the animal propensities of his nature, and to his devoted and unremitted pursuit of literature and science, in this as in other respects, the natural auxiliaries of virtue and innocence.

The passions of Burke were strong. This, as already remarked, is attributable in great measure to the intensity of the imaginative faculty. It cannot be denied that he was sometimes irascible, and prompt to take offence: he was, however, in general, easily placable and ready to forgive. His conduct in the latter part of his life, towards his ancient friend and political ally, Charles James Fox, is, indeed, an exception. In his "Remarks on the Conduct of the Minority," he shows a bitterness and animosity unworthy of him. Nothing can wholly vindicate it; nor, indeed, does it admit even of excuse, except upon the supposition that he sincerely believed that the French Revolution threatened such immediate ruin to this country, as to demand an abjuration of all friendship with those who in any measure favoured it. In this belief, he may well be supposed to be erroneous; but that he was sincere in it, is testified by the whole tenor of his later writings. Terror of the French Revolution had taken such hold on his imagination, had so diseased his fancy, that there was scarcely any extravagance in private life of which he was not capable. In his own strong language, "there was something about the accursed French Revolution which poisoned every thing." It imbittered the whole of the latter years of his existence.

The social qualities of Burke were most estimable. No man ever attracted a larger number of friends; and no man ever inspired his friends with greater admiration; admiration not only of his genius, (which envy itself could scarcely have refused,) but of his virtue. It may be added, that none retained his friends in greater constancy. His hospitality was great, (greater indeed than his means,) though perfectly simple and unostentatious. It was expensive, because it was so hearty and so free, not because it was profuse; it was expensive rather from the number of the guests, than from the costliness of the entertainment. Benevolence and generosity characterized Burke in a very unusual degree. These virtues, like his hospitality, were too great for his limited fortune. His liberality to unfriended genius, as for instance, Barry, not to mention others, rose even to heroic

benevolence. His patronage of such was not merely generous; considering his circumstances, it was munificent.

He has been by some accused of great vanity. Of this there is no sufficient proof. That he was conscious of the possession of vast talents, there cannot be a doubt; not to have had this consciousness, would have been impossible; that he was ambitious of distinction and applause, may be also believed; but that he was much infected with that petty passion which is usually designated by the term vanity, is not only destitute of positive proof, but may be inferred, on very sufficient grounds, to be false. This passion, in its more odious aspects, is almost always dissociated from such a mind as Burke's. Pride and arrogance are much more frequently its characteristics; and from these, though not often manifested, he was far from being entirely free.

One of the most charming features in the private character of Burke, was simplicity. We have already remarked that he was free from the vices of dissipation, which so deeply stained many of the most celebrated of his contemporaries; we now add, that he was as free from all the follies of fashion. All his tastes and habits were those of a healthful, uncorrupted, unsophisticated mind. When not absorbed in the anxieties and agitations of political life, he needed no artificial stimulus, such as those which fashionable dissipation supplies, to pass away the languid hours or fill that void which temporary repose from business had occasioned. At such seasons he sought his home and his studies in the country; in the enjoyment of domestic pleasures-in the cheerful society of his friends—in the still eager pursuit of science and literature, he found a perennial source of innocent delight. This was noble, rational relaxation. He was, indeed, one of the very few, whose old age is as ardently devoted to literature as their youth; he could not be spoiled for these tranquil, simple, elevated pleasures, by the fiercer and more tumultuous delights, or the dear-bought excitement, of public life. In this he remarkably resembled Cicero. They were almost the only two men who have united, at one and the same time, the characters of statesman and philosopher, and who could exchange, at will, one for the other, as circumstances led them to the city or the villa.

This brief sketch of Burke's character should not be closed, without referring for a moment to the charge, more serious than any other, which has sometimes been brought against him, that his opinions on the French Revolution were not those of an honest man; that he gladly availed himself of that event to abandon his political associates, and warm himself, if he could, in the winter of his days, by creeping into the sunshine of court favour. The charge of alleged inconsistency has been already dismissed; we have attempted to show, that however true on some subordinate points, it is not true in the main. The charge we have now to do with, however, does not affect his mere consistency of opinion, but his integrity; and a more unfounded charge we will venture to say was never brought against any public man. What evidence of sincerity, indeed, could Burke afford, which his conduct and manner did not furnish? or what circumstances in any case could indicate the secrets of the heart, which are not to be found in this? He was already advanced in years, and enjoying the reputation of very long and manly consistency. Was it likely that he would part with this weighty revenue of fame for the pension of an hour; he who, with whatever faults his enemies might charge him, was never charged with mean or sordid views? He had long identified himself with a certain party, with whom he had a thousand ties and a thousand sympathies. Was he likely, without a real change of opinion, lightly to break faith with them? In that party he ranked the friends of many years and his most ardent admirers. Was he likely to give up the substantial advantages derived from their support for the uncertainty of court favour? or, to put the matter on higher ground, was he likely to tear away the feelings and sentiments that had intertwined themselves with his very existence, for such paltry and precarious advantages? Or had he alone so cold and frozen a temperament, as to think such sacrifices light in comparison with pecu

niary interests? To assert the affirmative of all this is the only consistent way of maintaining this paradox; his enemies are compelled to defend one absurdity by twenty !-Again, to look at it on lower grounds, was Burke so little acquainted with human nature and the history of political factions, as not to know that if he did break with his party for any other reason but that of supposed duty, (in other words, because necessitated to do so,) the abuse and malignity with which he would be assailed, would be a costly price. to pay for the wages of apostacy? But further still, he had no pension-no favour-nothing but some empty compliments, (which he might have obtained more cheaply from his own party,) till 1795, six years after the publication of his "Reflections."-Would any man make a voluntary and most shameless sacrifice of character, and of interest too, upon such contingencies? Would he not have managed the whole business, since he is supposed to have managed the most important part of it, in the spirit of trade, and have asked, “ what will you pay down for my apostacy? I must have the thirty pieces of silver told out to me." But the matter does not end here; so far from supporting the measures of the minister, whatever they might be, Burke differed from him almost as much as his own party did, and expressed that difference of sentiment as boldly. He went indeed as far beyond government in opposition to the Revolution, as Mr. Fox's party fell short of it. He was constantly goading on the ministry to a more vigorous and systematic prosecution of the war, and assailing them with the utmost severity, because they did not follow his advice. Was this the part of a hireling advocate, a fawning sycophant, who knows full well " the times and seasons,” and who will always find the measures of patrons to be measures of wisdom. Lastly, his very extravagances and violence, the tremendous extent to which he carried his opinions, the prompt and decisive manner in which he renounced party and friendship whenever he thought they stood in the way of his projects, the ill-judged, almost ferocious vehemence with which he often expressed himself, and the agony of terror in which he passed the latter years of his life, are all so many attestations to his sincerity. They might, if his adversaries so please, indicate the infirmities of his judgment, but could never be any other than evidence of his sincerity. Such extravagances are not symptoms of a cool, calculating, interested craftiness. Posterity may feel doubt as to whether his terrors were justified; but as to whether he really felt them, they will have none. A charge so outrageous as that now under consideration, could only have been inspired by the eagerness of political animosity, and must seem ridiculous to any who shall be in a situation to look at it soberly and calmly.

It remains to offer a few observations on Burke's principal writings. The earliest production which finds a place in his works, is his "Vindication of Natural Society." It was written at the early age of twenty-six, and its history is not a little

curious.

The posthumous works of Lord Bolingbroke, commonly though falsely called philosophical, had just been published. These works are distinguished in an almost equal degree for feebleness of thought and beauty of diction; for a superficial and flippant philosophy, but clothed in all the harmonies and graces of language. Still they are not without some use; it is convenient for the young writer to be furnished not only with specimens in which all the elements of eloquence are united, but with some in which each is found to the exclusion of the rest. Such specimens facilitate, at all events, the analysis of that most complex thing,-beautiful composition. Now while there are very many works, which exhibit powerful thought, dissociated from the beauties of style, there are comparatively few, which possess great excellence of style without correspondent excellences of a higher kind. This, however, is afforded us in the "Philosophical Works of Bolingbroke." They may be considered as affording an example of the abstract perfection of style; by them we may judge what are the powers of language as separated from sentiment, and in what proportions elegance, and harmony, and rhythm, contribute to the production of real eloquence.

Viewed in any other light, they are below contempt. Their aim is to render religion ridiculous by an exaggerated view of its abuses.

Burke had heard Bolingbroke's style pronounced inimitable. Emulous of rivalling the fame of this great master of language, and, at the same time, anxious to administer an antidote to his mischievous speculations, he wrote the ironical piece now under consideration. Adopting the very course of argument which Bolingbroke had pursued with reference to religion, he argues that as civil society has been the occasion of such great miseries to mankind, it would be well to return to a state of savage nature. Like Bolingbroke, he of course dwells exclusively on the evils of civil government; in other words, he confines himself to one side of the question.

The imitation was perfect, both in style and argument; so much so, that Mallett, to whom had been assigned the infamy of ushering the progeny of Lord Bolingbroke's shame into the world, thought it right to go to Dodsley's and disclaim Burke's piece. The argument, indeed, is carried on so gravely and with such an appearance of sincerity, that many persons have read it without the slightest suspicion that it was concealed irony. The composition conclusively shows Burke's early and complete mastery over language. As his style naturally possessed much of the character of Lord Bolingbroke's, it may be doubted, after all, whether he found it so difficult to imitate the mere composition of his Lordship, as to invest it with the requisite mediocrity of thought; to expel from his own style the nervous and vigorous argument which generally pervades it, and make it utter those inania grandia which fill the pages of his model.

The "Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful,” was produced, it has been already observed, at the early age of twenty-seven. With this fact before us, it cannot surely appear wonderful that the treatise in question by no means contains a complete analysis of that most subtle and perplexing subject to which it relates. There were, however, other reasons besides the mere youth of the writer, which would account for the comparative inferiority of this piece. Those reasons have already been slightly glanced at in the attempt to discriminate the peculiarities of Burke's intellect. It was then remarked that his powers of observation were far superior to his powers of abstract reasoning or of close analysis. It was remarked, moreover, that the treatise now under consideration affords striking evidence of the correctness of this representation. It contains, especially in the II. and III. Parts, a very wide and comprehensive induction of the various objects, the presentation of which to the mind will give rise to the emotions of the sublime and beautiful. The greater part of these sections (as a collection of independent facts) evince great powers of observation. But the moment he attempts to found on these separate facts a general theory, or to trace throughout the whole of them some common properties in which emotions of the sublime and beautiful may be supposed to originate, or to analyze these emotions themselves into their primary elements, he is sure to fall into egregious errors, errors some of which are so glaring that even his youth hardly furnishes a sufficient apology. Thus (just to mention an instance or two) we find him attributing to certain colours and smells and tastes, apart from association, the power of awakening the ideas of the sublime! Again, having determined not only that the terrible enters into the composition of every emotion of the sublime, (which would be far from strictly true,) but that "whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime,” he is led into a great many extravagances and much fanciful reasoning for the support of this hypothesis. Thus, after affirming (and rightly) that objects distinguished by the vastness of their dimensions are sublime, and having, as we have said, resolved that the terrible is always conjoined with the sublime, he accounts for the sublimity of vast objects in the following strange manner: That as the terrible is always connected with pain: and as the great number of rays which large objects emit, by crowding into the eye together, produce a