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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.
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