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signate, but somewhat desultory declamation in which he excelled all men, and which was set on by looks, ones, and gestures, worthy of Garrick or Talma, was out of place in a small oponent where the audience often consisted of three or our drowsy prelates, three or four old judges, accustomed during many years to disregard rhetoric, and to look only at facts and arguments, and three or four listless and supercilious men of fashion, whom any thing o enthusiasm moved to a sneer. In the House of Commons, a flash of his eye, a wave of his arm, had sometimes cowed Murray. But, in the House of Peers, his utmost vehemence and puthus produced less effect than the noderation, the reasonableness, the luminous order, and the serene dignity, which characteron the speeches of Lord Mansfield. On the question of the Middlesex election. all the three divisions of the opposition acted in concert. No orator in either House de- fended what is now universally admitted to have been the constitutional cause with more andour or eloquence than Chatham. Before his subject had ceased to occupy the public mind, George Grenville died. His party rapidly melted away; and in a short time most of his adherents appeared on the ministerial benches. Had George Grenville lived many months longer, the friendly ties which, after years of estrongement and hostility, had been renewed between him and his brother-in-law, would, in all probability, have been a second time vioently dissolved. For now the quarrel between England and the North American colonies - ook a gloomy and terrible aspect. Oppression provoked resistance; resistance was made the pretext for fresh oppression. The warnings of all the greatest statesmen of the age were lost on an imperious court and a deludo nation. Soon a colonial senate con- onto the British Parliament. Then the colonial militia crossed bayonets with the Brilish regiments. At length the commonwealth was torn asunder. Two millions of Englishmen, who, fifteen years before, had been as loyal to their prince and as proud of their country as the people of Kent or Yorkshire, separated themselves by a solemn act from the empire. For a time it seemed that the insurgents would struggle to small purpose against the vast financial and military means of the other country. But disasters, following one another in rapid succession, rapidly dispelled the illusions of national vanity. At length a great British force, exhausted, famished, harassed on every side by a hostile peasantry, was compelled to deliver up its arms. Those governments which England had, in the late war, so signally humbled, and which had during many years been sullenly brooding over The recollections of Quebec, of Minden, and of The Moro, now saw with exultation that the day of revenge was at hand. France recogused the independence of the United States; and there could be little doubt that the example would soon be followed by Spain. Chatham and Rockingham had cordially ourred in opposing every part of the fatal - policy which had brought the state into this

dangerous situation. But their paths no verged. Lord Rockingham thought on the event proved, thought most justly revolted colonies were separated from pire for ever, and that the only effect longing the war on the American con would be to divide resources which sirable to concentrate. If the hopeless to subjugate Pennsylvania and Virginia abandoned, war against the house of Bouro might possibly be avoided, or, if into might be carried on with success and ol We might even indemnify ourselves for to of what we had lost, at the expense to Foreign enemies who had hoped to not to our domestic dissensions. Lord Rocio Therefore, and those who acted with him, onceived that the wisest course now on England, was to acknowledge the independ ence of the United States, and to turn in whole force against her European enoi Chatham, it should seem ought to have taken the same side. Before France had taken any part in our quartel with the conies, he had repeatedly, and with great eno of language, declared that it was impossible to conquer America; and he could not without absurdity maintain that it was easier to coauer France and America together * America alone. But his passions overpowered his judgment, and made him blood to his on inconsistency. The very circumstances which made the separation of the colonies inevitolmade it to him altogether insupportable. The dismemberment of the empire seemed to him. less ruinous and humiliating, when produced by domestic dissensions, than when produced by foreign interference. His blood boiled to the degradation of his country. Wor lowered her among the nations of the earn he felt as a personal outrage to himself. And the feeling was natural. He had made her so great. He had been so proud of her; and she had been so proud of him. He remembered how, more than twenty years before, in a do of gloom and dismay, when her possessions were torn from her, when her flag was dishonoured, she had called on him to save he He remembered the sudden and glorious change which his energy had wrough to long series of triumphs, the days of than giving the nights of illumination. Fired such recollections, he determined to son himself from those who advised that the into endence of the colonies should be on edged. That he was in error, will scarcelo we think be disputed by his warmes admirer Indeed, the treaty by which, a few years lo the republic of the United States was to mised, was the work of his most on adherents and of his favourite son. The Duke of Richmond had given notice or an address to the throne, against the further prosecution of hostilities with America. Chahan had during some time, absented himsel rom Parliament, in consequenee of his grow og infirmities. He determined to appear in his place on this occasion, and to deco on his opinions were decidedly at variance with those of the Rockingham party. He was in

state of great excitement. His medical so

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panied him to Westminster.

tendants were uneasy, and strongly advised him to calm himself, and to remain at home. out he was not to be controlled. His son Wiian, and his son-in-law Lord Mahon, accomHe rested himset in the chancellor's room till the debate commenced, and then, leaning on his two young relations, limped to his seat. The slightest particulars of that day were remembered, and have been carefully recorded. He bowed, it was remarked, with great courtliness to those neers who rose to make way for him and his supporters. His crutch was in his hand. He wore, as was his fashion, a rich velvet coal. His legs were swashed in flannel. His wig was so large, and his face so emaciated, that none of his features could be discerned except the high curve of nose, and his eyes, which still retained a gleam of the old fire. When the Duke of Richmond had spoken. Chatham rose. For some time his voice was inaudible. At length histones became distinct and his action animated. Here and there his hearers caught a thought or an expression which reminded them of William Pitt. But it was clear that he was not himself. He lost the thread of his discourse, hesitated, repeated the same words several times, and was so confused, that in speaking of the Act of Settlement he could not recall the name of the Electress Sophia. The House listened in solemn silence, and with the aspect of profound respect and compassion. The stillness was so deep that the dropping of a handkerchief would have been heard. The Duke of Richmond replied with great tenderness and courtesy; but, while he spoke, the old man was observed to be restless and irritable. The duke sat down. Chatham stood up again, pressed his hand on his breast, and sank down in an apoplectic fit. Three or four lords who sat near him caught him in his fall. The House broke up in confusion. The dying man was carried to the residence of one of the officers of Parliament, and was so far restored as to be able to bear a journey to Hayes. At Hayes, after lingering a few weeks, he expired in his seventieth year. His bed was watched to the last, with anxious tenderness, by his wife and children; and he well deserved their care. Too often haughty and wayward to others, to them he had been almost effeminately kind. He had through life been dreaded by his political opponents, and regarded with more awe than love even by his political associates. But no fear seems to have mingled with the affection which his fondness, constantly overflowing in a thousand endearing forms, had inspired in the little circle at Hayes. Chatham, at the time of his decease, had not, in both Houses of Parliament, ten personal adherents. Half the public men of the age had been estranged from him by his errors, and the other half by the exertions which he had made to repair his errors. His last speech had been

an attack at once on the policy pursued by the government, and on the policy recommended

by the opposition. But death at once restored him to his old place in the affection of his country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that which had been so great, and which had stood so long The circumstances, too, seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than To real life. A great statesman, full of years and honours, led forth to the senate-house by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council while straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar veneration and tenderness, Detraction was overawed. The voice even of just and temperate censure was mute. Nothing was remembered but the lofty genius, the unsullied probity, the undisputed services, of him who was no more. For once, all parties were agreed. A public suneral, a public monument, were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased were paid. A provision was made for his family. The city of London requested that the remains of the great man whom she had so long loved and honoured might rest under the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition came too late. Every thing was already prepared for the inTerment in Westminster Abbey.

Though men of all parties had concurred in decreeing posthumous honours to Chatham, his corpse was attended to the grave almost exclusively by opponents of the government. The banner of the lordship of Chatham was borne by Colonel Barré, attended by the Duke of Richmond and Lord Rockingham. Burke, Savile, and Dunning upheld the pall. Lord Camden was conspicuous in the procession. The chief mourner was young William Pitt. After the lapse of more than twenty-seven years, in a season as dark and perilous, his own shattered frame and broken heart were laid, with the same pomp, in the same consecrated mould.

Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the church, in a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen, as the other end of the same transept has long been to poets. Mansfield rests there, and the second William Pitt, and Fox, and Grattan, and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no other Cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a space. High over those venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his own effigy, graven by a cumning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes. The generation which reared that memorial of him has disappeared. The time has come when the rash and indiscriminate judgments which his contemporaries passed on his character may be calmly revised by history. And history while, for the warning of vehement, high, and daring natures, she notes his many errors, will yet deliberately pronounce, that, among the eminent men whose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a more stainless, and none a more splendid name.

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SPEECH on His mosomali, ATION As Loko RECTOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGo.

[Manch 21, 1819.

My first duty, gentlemen, is to return you my thanks for the high honour you have conterred on me. That honour, as you well know. was wholly unsolicited, and I can assure you it was wholly unexpected. I may add that * I had been invited to become a candidate for your suffrages, I should have respectfully deolined the invitation. My predecessor, whom I am so happy as to be able to call my frienddeclared from this place last year, in language which well became him, that he would not have come forward to displace so eminent a statesman as Lord John Russel. I can with equal truth declare that I would not have come forward to displace so estimable a gentleman and so accomplished a man as Colonel Mure. But he felt last year that it was not for him, and I Feel this year that it is not for me, to question the propriety of your decision, in a point on which, by the constitution of your body, you are the sole judges. I therefore accept with thankfulness the office to which I am called, fully purposing to use whatever powers belong to it with the single view of the promotion of

the credit and the welfare of this university.

I am not using a mere phrase, of course, when I say that the feelings with which I bear a part in the ceremony of this day, are such as I find it difficult to utter in words. I do not think it strange, that when that great master of eloquence, Edmund Burke, stood where I now stand, he faltered and remained mute. Doubtless the multitude of thoughts which rushed into his mind were such as even he could not easily arrange or express. In truth, There are few spectacles more striking or affecting, than that which a great historical place of education presents on a solemn public day.

There is something strangely interesting in the contrast between the venerable antiquity of the body and the fresh and ardent youth of the great majority of the members. Recollecions and hopes crowd upon us together. The past and the future are at once brought close to us. Our thoughts wander back to the time when the foundations of this ancient building were laid, and forward to the time when those whom it is our office to guide and to teach will be the guides and teachers of our posterity. On the present occasion we may, with peculiar propriety, give such thoughts their course. For it has chanced that my magistracy has sullen in a great secular epoch. This is the tour hundredth year of the existence of your university. At such jubilees as these—jubilees of which no individual sees more than one it is natural, it is good, that a society like this— a society which survives all the transitory parts of which it is composed—a society which has

a corporate existence and a perpetual succes. sion, should review its annals, should retro the stages of its growth, from infancy to no ourity, and should try to find in the experionoof generations which have passed away, lesson which may be profitable to generations yet u born. The retrospect is full of interest to instruction. Perhaps it may be doubted whether since the Christian era, there has been any point of time more important to the highest interest of mankind, than that at which the exotion of your university commenced. It was the moment of a great destruction und of a great creation. Your society was instituted just before the empire of the east perished—that strange empire, which, drugging on longui life through the great age of loss on nected together the two great uses of lightthat empire which, adding nothing to our stores of knowledge, and producing not one man great in letters, in science, or in ot, yet preserved in the midst of barbarism, those master-pieces of Attic genius which the highest minds still contemplate, and long will contemplate with

admiring despair; and, at that very time. while the fanatical Moslem were plundering the churches and palaces of Constantinople, break- ing in pieces Grecian sculpture, and giving to

the flames piles of Grecian eloquence, a to humble German artisans, who little knew that they were calling into existence a power to: mightier than that of the victorious sultan. were busied in cutting and setting the irst types. The University came into existence inst in time to see the last trace of the on empire disappear, and to see the earliest printed book. At this conjuncture—a conjuncture of unrivalled interest in the history of letters— man never to be mentioned without revor by every lover of letters, held the highest place in Europe. Our just attachment to Protestant faith to which our country owe much, must not prevent us from paying tribute which, on this occasion and in to place, justice and gratitude demand to founder of the University of Glasgow to greatest of the revivors of learning to Nicholas the Fifth. He had sprung on to common people; but his abilities and his dition had early attracted the notice of the great. He had studied much and travelled to He had visited Great Britain, which, in woul and refinement, was to his notive Tuscan the back settlements of American now Britain. He had lived with the mero princes of Florence, those men who first on nobled trade by making trade the ally of plot

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losophy, of eloquence, and of taste.

It was he who, under the protection of the munificent and discerning Cosmo, arrayed the first public library that modern Europe possessed. From privacy your founder rose to a throne; but on the throne he never forgot the studies which had been his delight in privacy. He was the centre of an illustrious group, composed partly of the last great scholars of Greece, and partly of the first great scholars of Italy, Théodore Gaza and George of Trebizond, Bessarin and Tilesto, Marsilio Ficino and Poggio Bracciolini. By him was founded the Vatican library, then and long after the most precious and the most extensive collection of books in the world. By him were carefully preserved the most valuable intellectual treasures which had been snatched from the wreck of the Byzantine empire. His agents were to be found everywhere—in the bazaars of the farthest East, in the monasteries of the farthest West—purchasing or copying worm-eaten parchments, on which were traced words worthy of immortality. Under his pas tronage were prepared accurate Latin versions of many precious remains of Greek poets and philosophers. But no department of literature owes so much to him as history. By him were introduced to the knowledge of Western Europe, two great and unrivalled models of historical composition, the work of Herodotus and the work of Thucydides. By him, too, our ancestors were first made acquainted with the graceful and lucid simplicity of Xenophon, and with the mainly good sense of Polybius. It was while he was occupied with cares like these that his attention was called to the intellectual wants of this region—a region now swarming with population, rich with culture, and resounding with the clang of machinery— a region which now sends forth fleets laden with its admirable fabrics to lands of which, in his days, no geographer had ever heard– then a wild, a poor, a half-barbarous tract, lying in the utmost verge of the known world. He gave his sanction to the plan of establishing a University at Glasgow, and bestowed on the new seat of learning all the privileges which belonged to the University of Bologna. I can conceive that n pitying smile passed over his face as he named Bologna and Glasgow together. At Bologna, he had long studied. No spot in the world has been more favoured by nature or by art. The surrounding country was a fruitful and sunny country, a country of corn-fields and vineyards. In the city the house of Bentivoglio bore rule—a house which vied with the Medici in taste and magnificence—which has left to posterity noble palaces and temples, and which gave a splendid patronage to arts and sciences. Glasgow he knew to be a poor, a small, a rude town, and, as he would have thought, not likely ever to be otherwise; for the soil, compared with the rich country at the foot of the Apennines, was barren, and the climate was such that an Italian shuddered at the thought of it. But it is not on the fertility of the soil– it is not on the mildness of the atmosphere that the prosperity of nations chiefly depends. Slavery and superstition can make Campania a land of beggars, and can change the plain of Enna into a desert. Noris it beyond the power of human intelligence and energy, developed

by civil and spiritual freedom, to turn sterile rocks and pestilental marshes into cities and gardens. Enlightened as your founder was, he little knew that he was himself a chief agent in a great revolution-physical and moral political and religious—in a revolution destined to make the last first, and the first last—in n revolution destined to invert the relative positions of Glasgow and Bologna. We cannot, I think, better employ a few minutes than in reviewing the stages of this great change in human affairs. The review shall be short. Indeed, I cannot do better than pass rapidly from century to century. Look at the world, then, a hundred years after the seal of Nicholas had been affixed to the instrument which called your college into existence. We find Europe– we find Scotland especially, in the agonies of that great revolution which we emphatically call the Reformation. The liberal patronage which Nicholas, and men like Nicholas, had given to learning, and of which the establishment of this seat of learning is not the least remarkable instance, had produced an effect which they had never contemplated. Ignorance was the talisman on which their power depended, and that talisman they had themselves broken. They had called in knowledge as a handmaid to decorate superstition, and their error produced its natural effect. I need not tell you what a part the votaries of classical learning, and especially

of Greek learning, the Humanists, as they were

then called, bore in the great movement against spiritual tyranny. In the Scotch University, I need hardly mention the names of Knox, of Buchanan, of Melville, of Maitland, of Lethington. They formed, in fact, the vangaard of that movement. Every one of the chief reformers—I do not at this moment remember a single exception—was a Humanist. Every eminent Humanist in the north of Europe was according to the measure of his uprightness and courage, a reformer. In truth, minds daily nourished with the best literature of Greece and Rome, necessarily grew too strong to be trammelled by the cobwebs of the scholastic divinity; and the influence of such minds was now rapidly felt by the whole community. for the invention of printing had brought books within the reach even of yeomen and of artisans. From the Mediterranean to the Frozen Sea, therefore, the public mind was everywhere in a ferment, and nowhere was the ferment greater than in Scotland. It was in the midst of martyrdoms and proscriptions, in the midst of a war between power and truth, that the first century of the existence of your University closed. Pass another hundred years, and we are in the midst of another revolution. The war between Popery and Protestantism had, in this island, been terminated by the victory of Protestantism. But from that war another war had sprung–the war between Prelucy and Puritanism. The hostile religious sects were allied, intermingled, confounded with hostile political parties. The monarchical element of the constitution was an object of almost exclusive devotion to the prelatist. The popular element of the constitution was especially dear to the Puritan. At length an appeal was made

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