Again he was going: but glancing his eyes once more down upon Mr. Hastings, he almost sighed—he fetched, at least, a deep breath, while he exclaimed with strong emotion, “What a place for a man to stand in to hear what he has to hear!—’tis almost too much!”
It would not be easy to tell you how touching at such a time was the smallest concession from an avowed opponent, and I could not help exclaiming again, “O, Mr. Windham, you must not be so liberal!”
“O!” cried he, smiling, and recovering himself, “’tis all the deeper malice, only to draw you in!”
Still, however, he did not go: he kept gazing upon Mr. Hastings till he seemed almost fascinated to the spot; and presently after, growing more and more open in his discourse, he began to talk to me of Sir Elijah Impey. I presume my dearest friends, little as they hear of politics and state business, must yet know that the House of Commons is threatening Sir Elijah with an impeachment, to succeed that of Mr. Hastings, and all upon East India transactions of the same date.265
When he had given me his sentiments upon this subject, which I had heard with that sort of quietness that results from total ignorance of the matter, joined to total ignorance of the person concerned, he drew a short comparison, which, nearly, from him, and at such a moment, drew the tears from my eyes—nearly do I say?—Indeed more than that!
“Sir Elijah,” cried he, “knows how to go to work, and by getting the lawyers to side with him professionally, has set about his defence in the most artful manner. He is not only wicked, but a very pitiful fellow. Let him but escape fine or imprisonment, and he will pocket all indignity, and hold himself happy in getting off: but Hastings (again looking steadfastly at him)—Hastings has feeling—’tis a proud feeling, an ambitious feeling—but feeling he has! Hastings—come to him what may—fine, imprisonment, whatsoever is inflicted—all will be nothing. The moment of his punishment—I think it, upon my honour!—was the moment that brought him to that bar!”
When he said “I think it, upon my honour,” he laid his hand on his breast, as if he implied, “I acquit him henceforward.”
Poor Mr. Hastings! One generous enemy he has at least, who pursues him with public hate, but without personal malignity! yet sure I feel he can deserve neither!
I did not spare to express my sense of this liberality from a foe; for, indeed, the situation I was in, and the sight of Mr. Hastings, made it very affecting to me. He was affected too, himself; but presently, rising, he said with great quickness, “I must shake all this off; I must have done with it—dismiss it—forget that he is there.”
“O, no,” cried I, earnestly, “do not forget it!”
“Yes, yes; I must.”
“No, remember it rather,” cried I; “I could almost (putting up my hands as if praying) do thus and then, like poor Mr. Hastings just now to the house, drop down on my knees to you, to call out ‘Remember it.’”
“Yes, Yes,” cried he, precipitately, “how else shall I go on? I must forget that he is there, and that you are here.” And then he hurried down to his committee.
Was it not a most singular scene?
I had afterwards to relate great part of this to the queen herself. She saw me engaged in such close discourse, and with such apparent interest on both sides, with Mr. Windham, that I knew she must else form conjectures innumerable. So candid, so liberal is the mind of the queen, that she not only heard me with the most favourable attention towards Mr. Windham, but was herself touched even to tears by the relation.
We stayed but a short time after this last conference; for nothing more was attempted than reading on the charges and answers, in the same useless manner.
The interest of this trial was so much upon my mind, that I have not kept even a memorandum of what passed from the 13th of February to the day when I went again to Westminster Hall; nor, except renewing the Friday Oratorios with Mrs. Ord, do I recollect one circumstance.
The second time that the queen, who saw my wishes, indulged me with one of her tickets, and a permission of absence for the trial, was to hear Mr. Burke, for whom my curiosity and my interest stood the highest. One ticket, however, would not do; I could not go alone, and the queen had bestowed all her other’ tickets before she discovered that this was a day in my particular wishes. She entered into my perplexity with a sweetness the most gracious, and when I knew not how to obviate it, commanded me to write to the Duchess of Ancaster, and beg permission to be put under the wing of her grace, or any of her friends that were going to the Hall.
The duchess, unluckily, did not go, from indisposition, nor any of her family; but she sent me a very obliging letter, and another ticket from Sir Peter Burrell, to use for a companion.
I fixed upon James, who, I knew, wished to hear Mr. Burke for once, and we went together very comfortably. When the managers, who, as before, made the first procession, by entering their box below us, were all arranged, one from among them, whom I knew not, came up into the seats of the House of Commons by our side, and said, “Captain Burney, I am very glad to see you.”
“How do you do, sir?” answered James; “here I am, come to see the fine show.”
Upon this the attacker turned short upon his heel, and abruptly walked away, descending into the box, which he did not quit any more. I inquired who he was; General Burgoyne, James told me. “A manager!” cried I, “and one of the chargers! and you treat the business of the Hall with such contempt to his face!”
James laughed heartily at his own uncourtly address, but I would not repent, though he acknowledged he saw the offence his slight and slighting speech had given.
Fearful lest he should proceed in the same style with my friend Mr. Windham, I kept as aloof as possible, to avoid his notice, entreating James at the same time to have the complaisance to be silent upon this subject, should he discover me and approach. My own sentiments were as opposite to those of the managers as his, and I had not scrupled to avow honestly my dissent; but I well knew Mr. Windham might bear, and even respect, from a female, the same openness of opposition that might be highly offensive to him from a man. But I could obtain no positive promise; he would only compromise with my request, and agree not to speak unless applied to first. This, however, contented me, as Mr. Windham was too far embarked in his undertaking to solicit any opinion upon it from accidentally meeting any common acquaintance.
From young Burke and his uncle Richard I had bows from the committee box. Mr. Windham either saw me not, or was too much engaged in business to ascend.
procession closed, the prisoner was brought in, and Mr. Burke began his speech. It was the second day of his harangue;266 the first I had not been able to attend.
All I had heard of his eloquence, and all I had conceived of his great abilities, was more than answered by his performance. Nervous, clear, and striking was almost all that he uttered: the main business, indeed, of his coming forth was frequently neglected, and not seldom wholly lost, but his excursions were so fanciful, so entertaining, and so ingenious, that no miscellaneous hearer, like myself, could blame them. It is true he was unequal, but his inequality produced an effect which, in so long a speech, was perhaps preferable to greater consistency since, though it lost attention in its falling off, it recovered it with additional energy by some ascent unexpected and wonderful. When he narrated, he was easy, flowing, and natural; when he declaimed, energetic, warm, and brilliant. The sentiments he interspersed were as nobly conceived as they were highly coloured; his satire had a poignancy of wit that made it as entertaining as it was penetrating; his allusions and quotations, as far as they were English and within my reach, were apt and ingenious—and the wild and sudden flights of his fancy, bursting forth from his creative imagination in language fluent, forcible, and varied, had a charm for my ear and my attention wholly new and perfectly irresistible.
Were talents such as these exercised in the service of truth, unbiased by party and prejudice, how could we sufficiently applaud their exalted possessor? But though frequently he made me tremble by his strong and horrible representations, his own violence recovered me, by stigmatizing his assertions with personal ill-will and designing illiberality. Yet, at times I confess, with all that I felt, wished, and thought concerning Mr. Hastings, the whirlwind of his eloquence nearly drew me into its vortex. I give no particulars of the speech, because they will all be printed.
The observations and whispers of our keen as well as honest James, during the whole, were highly characteristic and entertaining.
“When will he come to the point?"-“These are mere words!”—“This is all sheer detraction!”—“All this is nothing to the purpose!” etc., etc.
“Well, ma’am, what say you to all this? how have you been entertained?” cried a voice at my side; and I saw Mr. Crutchley, who came round to speak to me.
“Entertained?” cried I, “indeed, not at all, it is quite too serious and too horrible for entertainment: you ask after my amusement as if I were at an opera or a comedy.”
“A comedy?” repeated he, contemptuously, “no, a farce! It is not high enough for a comedy. To hear a man rant such stuff. But you should have been here the first day he spoke; this is milk and honey to that. He said then, ‘His heart was as black—as—black!’ and called him the captain-general of iniquity.”
“Hush! hush!” cried I, for he spoke very loud; “that young man you see down there, who is looking up, is his son.”
“I know it,” cried he, “and what do I care?” How I knew Mr. Crutchley again, by his ready talent of defiance, and disposition to contempt! I was called aside from him by James.
Mr. Crutchley retired, and Mr. Windham quitted his den, and approached me, with a smile of good-humour and satisfaction that made me instantly exclaim, “No exultation, Mr. Windham, no questions; don’t ask me what I think of the speech; I can bear no triumph just now.”
“No, indeed,” cried he, very civilly, “I will not, I promise you, and you may depend upon me.”
He then spoke to James, regretting with much politeness that he had seen so little of him when he was his neighbour in Norfolk, and attributing it to the load of India business he had carried into the country to study. I believe I have mentioned that Felbrig, Mr. Windham’s seat, is within a few miles of my brother-in-law, Mr. Francis’s house at Aylsham.
After this, however, ere we knew where we were, we began commenting upon the speech. It was impossible to refuse applause to its able delivery and skilful eloquence; I, too, who so long had been amongst the warmest personal admirers of Mr. Burke, could least of all withhold from him the mite of common justice. In talking over the speech, therefore, while I kept clear of its purpose, I gave to its execution the amplest praise; and I secretly grieved that I held back more blame than I had commendation to bestow.
He had the good breeding to accept it just as I offered it, without claiming more, or endeavouring to entangle me in my approbation. He even checked himself, voluntarily, when he was asking me some question of my conversion, by stopping short, and saying, “But, no, it is not fair to press you; I must not do that.”
“You cannot,” cried I, “press me too much, with respect to my admiration of the ability of the speaker; I never more wished to have written short-hand. I must content myself, however, that I have at least a long memory.”
He regretted very much that I had missed the first opening of the speech, and gave me some account of it, adding, I might judge what I had lost then by what I had heard now.
I frankly confessed that the two stories which Mr. Burke had narrated had nearly overpowered me; they were pictures of cruelty so terrible.
“But General Caillot,” cried he, smiling, “the hero of one of them, you would be tempted to like: he is as mild, as meek, as gentle in his manners—”
I saw he was going to say “As your Mr. Hastings;” but I interrupted him hastily, calling out, “Hush! hush! Mr. Windham; would you wish me in future to take to nothing but lions?”
We then went into various other particulars of the speech, till Mr. Windham observed that Mr. Hastings was looking up, and, after examining him some time, said he did not like his countenance. I could have told him that he is generally reckoned extremely like himself but after such an observation I would not venture, and only said, “Indeed, he is cruelly altered: it was not so he looked when I conceived for him that prepossession I have owned to you.”
“Altered, is he?” cried he, biting his lips and looking somewhat shocked.
“Yes, and who can wonder? Indeed, it is quite affecting to see him sit there to hear such things.”
“I did not see him,” cried he, eagerly “I did not think it right to look at him during the speech, nor from the committeebox; and, therefore, I constantly kept my eyes another way.”
I-had a great inclination to beg he would recommend a little of the same decency to some of his colleagues, among whom are three or four that even stand on the benches to examine him, during the severest strictures, with opera-glasses. Looking at him again now, myself, I could not see his pale face and haggard eye without fresh concern, nor forbear to exclaim, “Indeed, Mr. Windham, this is a dreadful business!” He seemed a little struck with this exclamation; and, lest it should offend him, I hastened to add, in apology, “You look so little like a bloody-minded prosecutor, that I forget I ought not to say these things to you.”
“Oh!” cried he, laughing, “we are only prosecutors there—(pointing to the committee-box), we are at play up here.” ...
I wished much to know when he was himself to speak, and made sundry inquiries relative to the progress of the several harangues, but all without being comprehended, till at length I cried, “In short, Mr. Windham, I want to know when everybody speaks.”
He started, and cried with precipitancy, “Do you mean me?”
“Yes.”
“No, I hope not; I hope you have no wants about my miserable speaking?”
I Only laughed, and we talked for some time of other things; and then, suddenly, he burst forth with, “But you have really made me a little uneasy by what you dropped just now.”
“And what was that?”
“Something like an intention of hearing me.”
“Oh, if that depended wholly on myself, I should certainly do it.”
“No, I hope not! I would not have you here on any account. If you have formed any expectations, it will give me great concern.”
“Pray don’t be uneasy about that; for whatever expectations I may have formed, I had much rather have them disappointed.”
“Ho! ho!—you come, then,” cried he, pointedly, “to hear me, by way of soft ground to rest upon, after the hard course you will have been run with these higher-spirited speakers?”... He desired me not to fail to come and hear Fox. My chances, I told him, were very uncertain, and Friday was the earliest of them. “He speaks on Thursday,” cried he, “and indeed you should hear him.”
“Thursday is my worst chance of all,” I answered, “for it is the Court-day.”
“And is there no dispensation?” cried he; and then, recollecting himself, and looking very archly at Mr. Fox, who was just below us, he added, “No,—true—not for him!”
“Not for anybody!” cried I; “on a Court-day my attendance is as necessary, and I am dressed out as fine, and almost as stiff, as those heralds are here.” I then told him what were my Windsor days, and begged he would not seize one of them to speak himself.
“By no means,” cried he, quite seriously, “would I have you here!—stay away, and only let me hope for your good wishes.”
“I shall be quite sincere,” cried I, laughing, “and own to you that stay away I shall not, if I can possibly come; but as to my good wishes, I have not, in this case, one to give you!”
He heard this with a start that was almost a jump. “What!” he exclaimed, “would you lay me under your judgment without your mercy?—Why this is heavier than any penal statute.”
He spoke this with an energy that made Mr. Fox look up, to see to whom he addressed his speech: but before I could answer it, poor James, tired of keeping his promised circumspection, advanced his head to join the conversation; and so much was I alarmed lest he should burst forth into some unguarded expression of his vehement hatred to the cause, which could not but have irritated its prosecutors, that the moment I perceived his motion and intention, I abruptly took my leave of Mr. Windham, and surprised poor James into a necessity of following me.
Indeed I was now most eager to depart, from a circumstance that made me feel infinitely awkward. Mr. Burke himself was just come forward, to speak to a lady a little below me; Mr. Windham had instantly turned towards me, with a look of congratulation that seemed rejoicing for me, that the orator of the day, and of the cause, was approaching, but I retreated involuntarily back, and shirked meeting his eyes. He perceived in an instant the mistake he was making, and went on with his discourse as if Mr. Burke was out of the Hall. In a minute, however, Mr. Burke himself saw me, and he bowed with the most marked civility of manner; my courtesy was the most ungrateful, distant, and cold; I could not do otherwise; so hurt I felt to see him the head of such a cause, so impossible I found it to titter one word of admiration for a performance whose nobleness was so disgraced by its tenour, and so conscious was I the whole time that at such a moment to say nothing must seem almost an affront, that I hardly knew which way to look, or what to do with myself.267 In coming downstairs I met Lord Walsingham and Sir Lucas Pepys. “Well, Miss Burney,” cried the first, “what say you to a governor-general of India now?”
“Only this,” cried I, “that I do not dwell much upon any question till I have heard its answer!”
Sir Lucas then attacked me too. All the world against poor Mr. Hastings, though without yet knowing what his materials may be for clearing away these aspersions!
February.—Her majesty at this time was a little indisposed, and we missed going to Windsor for a fortnight, during which I received visits of inquiry from divers of her ladies—Mrs. Brudenell, bed-chamber woman; Miss Brudenell, her daughter, and a maid of honour elect, would but one of that class please to marry or die; Miss Tryon and Miss Beauclerk, maids of honour, neither of them in a firm way to oblige Miss Brudenell, being nothing approaching to death, though far advanced from marriage; and various others.
Miss Brudenell’s only present hope is said to be in Miss Fuzilier,268 who is reported, with what foundation I know not, to be likely to become Mrs. Fairly. She is pretty, learned, and accomplished; yet, from the very little I have seen of her, I should not think she had heart enough to satisfy Mr. Fairly, in whose character the leading trait is the most acute sensibility, However, I have heard he has disclaimed all such intention, with high indignation at the report, as equally injurious to the delicacy both of Miss Fuzilier and himself, so recently after his loss.
Westminster Hall, which, by the queen’s own indulgent order, was with dear Charlott and Sarah. It was also to hear Mr. Fox, and I was very glad to let Mr. Windham see a “dispensation” was attainable, though the cause was accidental, since the queen’s cold prevented the Drawing-room.269
We went early, yet did not get very good places. The managers at this time were all in great wrath at a decision made the night before by the Lords, upon a dispute between them and the counsel for Mr. Hastings, which turned entirely in favour of the latter.270 When they entered their committee-box, led on as usual by Mr. Burke, they all appeared in the extremest and most angry emotion.
When they had caballed together some time, Mr. Windham came up among the Commons, to bow to some ladies of his acquaintance, and then to speak to me; but he was so agitated and so disconcerted, he could name nothing but their recent provocation from the Lords. He seemed quite enraged, and broke forth with a vehemence I should not much have liked to have excited. They had experienced, he said, in the late decision, the Most injurious treatment that could be offered them: the Lords had resolved upon saving Mr. Hastings, and the chancellor had taken him under the grossest protection. “In short,” said he, “the whole business is taken out of our hands, and they have all determined to save him.”
“Have they indeed?” cried I, with Involuntary eagerness.
“Yes,” answered he, perceiving how little I was shocked for him, “it is now all going your way.”
I could not pretend to be sorry, and only inquired if Mr. Fox was to speak.
“I know not,” cried he, hastily, “what is to be done, who will speak, or what will be resolved. Fox is in a rage! Oh, a rage!”
“But yet I hope he will speak. I have never heard him.”
“No? not the other day?”
“No; I was then at Windsor.”
“Oh yes, I remember you told me you were going. You have lost every thing by it! To-day will be nothing, he is all rage! On Tuesday he was great indeed. You should have heard him then. And Burke, You should have heard the conclusion of Burke’s speech; ’twas the noblest ever uttered by man!”
“So I have been told.”
“To-day you will hear nothing—know nothing,—there will be no opportunity,—Fox is all fury.”
I told him he almost frightened me; for he spoke in a tremor himself that was really unpleasant.
“Oh!” cried he, looking at me half reproachfully, half goodhumouredly, “Fox’s fury is with the Lords—not there!” pointing to Mr. Hastings.
I saw by this he entered into my feelings in the midst of his irritability, and that gave me courage to cry out, “I am glad of that at least!”
Mr. Fox spoke five hours, and with a violence that did not make me forget what I had heard of his being in such a fury but I shall never give any account of these speeches, as they will all be printed. I shall only say a word of the speakers as far as relates to my own feelings about them, and that briefly will be to say that I adhere to Mr. Burke, whose oratorical powers appear to me far more gentleman-like, scholar-like, and fraught with true genius than those of Mr. Fox, it may be I am prejudiced by old kindnesses of Mr. Burke, and it may be that the countenance of Mr. Fox may have turned me against him, for it struck me to have a boldness in it quite hard and callous. However, it is little matter how much my judgment in this point may err. With you, my dear friends, I have nothing further to do than simply to give it; and even should it be wrong, it will not very essentially injure you in your politics.
Again, on the fourth time of my attendance at Westminster Hall, honest James was my esquire.
We were so late from divers accidents that we did not enter till the same moment with the prisoner. In descending the steps I heard my name exclaimed with surprise, and looking before me, I saw myself recognised by Mrs. Crewe. “Miss Burney,” she cried, “who could have thought of seeing you here!”
Very obligingly she made me join her immediately, which, as I was with no lady, was a very desirable circumstance; and though her political principles are well known, and, of course, lead her to side with the enemies of Mr. Hastings, she had the good sense to conclude me on the other side, and the delicacy never once to distress me by any discussion of the prosecution.
I was much disappointed to find nothing intended for this day’s trial but hearing evidence; no speaker was preparing; all the attention was devoted to the witnesses.
Mr. Adam, Mr. Dudley Long, and others that I know not, Came from the committee to chat with Mrs. Crewe; but soon after one came not so unknown to me—Mr. Burke; and Mrs. Crewe, seeing him ascend, named him to me, but was herself a little surprised to see it was his purpose to name himself, for he immediately made up to me, and with an air of such frank kindness that, could I have forgot his errand in that Hall, would have made me receive him as formerly, when I was almost fascinated with him. But far other were my sensations. I trembled as he approached me, with conscious change of sentiments, and with a dread of his pressing from me a disapprobation he might resent, but which I knew not how to disguise.
“Near-sighted as I am,” cried he, “I knew you immediately. I knew you from our box the moment I looked up; yet how long it is, except for an instant here, since I have seen you!”
“Yes,” I hesitatingly answered, “I live in a monastery now.”
He said nothing to this. He felt, perhaps, it was meant to express my inaccessibility. I inquired after Mrs. Burke. He recounted to me the particulars of his sudden seizure when he spoke last, from the cramp in his stomach, owing to a draught of cold water which he drank in the midst of the heat of his oration.
I could not even wear a semblance of being sorry for him on this occasion; and my cold answers made him soon bend down to speak with Mrs. Crewe.
I was seated in the next row to her, just above.
Mr. Windham was now talking with her. My whole curiosity and desire being to hear him, which had induced me to make a point of coming this time, I was eager to know if my chance was wholly gone. “You are aware,” I cried, when he spoke to me, “what brings me here this morning?”
“No;” he protested he knew not.
Mrs. Crewe, again a little surprised, I believe, at this second opposition acquaintance, began questioning how often I had attended this trial.
Mr. Windham, with much warmth of regret, told her very seldom, and that I had lost Mr. Burke on his best day.
I then turned to speak to Mr. Burke, that I might not seem listening, for they interspersed various civilities upon my peculiar right to have heard all the great speeches, but Mr. Burke was in so profound a reverie he did not hear me.
I wished Mr. Windham had not either, for he called upon him aloud, “Mr. Burke, Miss Burney speaks to you!”
He gave me his immediate attention with an air so full of respect that it quite shamed me.
“Indeed,” I cried, “I had never meant to speak to Mr. Burke again after hearing him in Westminster Hall. I had meant to keep at least that ‘geographical timidity.’”
I alluded to an expression in his great speech of “geographical morality” which had struck me very much.
He laughed heartily, instantly comprehending me, and assured me it was an idea that had occurred to him on the moment he had uttered it, wholly without study.
A little general talk followed; and then, one of the lords rising to question some of the evidence, he said he must return to his committee and business,-very flatteringly saying, in quitting his post, “This is the first time I have played truant from the manager’s box.”
However I might be obliged to him, which sincerely I felt, I was yet glad to have him go. My total ill will to all he was about made his conversation merely a pain to me. I did not feel the same With regard to Mr. Windham. He is not the prosecutor, and seems endowed with so much liberality and candour that it not Only encourages me to speak to him what I think, but leads me to believe he will one day or other reflect upon joining a party so violent as a stain to the independence of his character.
Almost instantly he came forward, to the place Mr. Burke had vacated.
“Are you approaching,” I cried, “to hear my upbraidings?”
“Why—I don’t know,” cried he, looking half alarmed.
“Oh! I give you warning, if you come you must expect them; so my invitation is almost as pleasant as the man’s in ‘Measure for Measure,’ who calls to Master Barnardine, ‘Won’t you come down to be hanged?’”
“But how,” cried he, “have I incurred your upbraidings?”
“By bringing me here,” I answered, “only to disappoint me.”
“Did I bring you here?”
“Yes, by telling me you were to speak to-day.”
He protested he could never have made such an assertion. I explained myself, reminding him he had told me he was certainly to speak before the recess; and that, therefore, when I was informed this was to be the last day of trial till after the recess, I concluded I should be right, but found myself so utterly wrong as to hear nothing but such evidence as I Could not even understand, because it was so uninteresting I could not even listen to it.
“How strangely,” he exclaimed, “are we all moulded, that nothing ever in this mortal life, however pleasant in itself, and however desirable from its circumstances, can come to us without alloy—not even flattery; for here, at this moment, all the high gratification I should feel, and I am well disposed to feel it thoroughly in supposing you could think it worth your while to come hither in order to hear me, is kept down and subdued by the consciousness how much I must disappoint you.”
“Not at all,” cried I; “the worse you speak, the better for my side of the question.”
He laughed, but confessed the agitation of his spirits was so great in the thought of that speech, whenever he was to make it, that it haunted him in fiery dreams in his sleep.
“Sleep!” cried I; “do you ever sleep?”
He stared a little, but I added with pretended dryness, “Do any of you that live down there in that prosecutor’s den ever sleep in your beds? I should have imagined that, had you even attempted it, the anticipating ghost of Mr. Hastings would have appeared to you in the dead of the night, and have drawn your curtains, and glared ghastly in your eyes. I do heartily wish Mr. Tickell would send You that ‘Anticipation’ at once!”
This idea furnished us with sundry images, till, looking down upon Mr. Hastings, with an air a little moved, he said, “I am afraid the most insulting thing we do by him is coming up hither to show ourselves so easy and disengaged, and to enter into conversation with the ladies.”
“But I hope,” cried I, alarmed, “he does not see that.”
“Why your caps,” cried he, “are much in your favour for concealment; they are excellent screens to all but the first row!”
I saw him, however, again look at the poor, and, I sincerely believe, much-injured prisoner, and as I saw also he still bore With my open opposition, I could not but again seize a favourable moment for being more serious With him.
“Ah, Mr. Windham,” I cried, “I have not forgot what dropped from you on the first day of this trial.”
He looked a little surprised. “You,” I continued, “probably have no remembrance of it, for you have been living ever since down there; but I was more touched with what you said then, than with all I have since heard from all the others, and probably than with all I shall hear even from you again when you mount the rostrum.”
“You conclude,” cried he, looking very sharp, “I shall then be better steeled against that fatal candour?”
“In fact,” cried I, “Mr. Windham, I do really believe your steeling to he factitious; notwithstanding you took pains to assure me your candour was but the deeper malice; and yet I will own, when once I have heard your speech, I have little expectation of ever having the honour of conversing with you again.”
“And why?” cried he, starting back “what am I to say that you denounce such a forfeit beforehand?”
I could not explain; I left him to imagine; for, should he prove as violent and as personal as the rest, I had no objection to his previously understanding I could have no future pleasure in discoursing with him.
“I think, however,” I continued, with a laugh, “that since I have settled this future taciturnity, I have a fair right in the meanwhile to say whatever comes uppermost." He agreed to this with great approvance.
“Molière, you know, in order to obtain a natural opinion of his plays, applied to an old woman: you upon the same principle, to obtain a natural opinion of political matters, should apply to an ignorant one—for you will never, I am sure, gain it down there.”
He smiled, whether he would or not, but protested this was the severest stricture upon his committee that had ever yet been uttered.
I told him as it was the last time he was likely to hear unbiased sentiments upon this subject, it was right they should be spoken very intelligibly. “And permit me,” I said, “to begin with what strikes me the most. Were Mr. Hastings really the culprit he is represented, he would never stand there.”
“Certainly,” cried he, with a candour he could not suppress, “there seems something favourable in that; it has a Pod look; but assure yourself he never expected to see this day.”
“But would he, if guilty, have waited its chance? Was not all the world before him? Could he not have chosen any other place of residence?”
“Yes—but the shame, the disgrace of a flight?”
“What is it all to the shame and disgrace of convicted guilt?” He made no answer.
“And now,” I continued, “shall I tell you, just in the same simple style, how I have been struck with the speakers and speeches I have yet heard?” He eagerly begged me to go on.
“The whole of this public speaking is quite new to me. I was never in the House of Commons. It is all a new creation to me.”
“And what a creation it is,” he exclaimed, “how noble, how elevating! and what an inhabitant for it!”
I received his compliment with great courtesy, as an encouragement for me to proceed. I then began upon Mr. Burke; but I must give you a very brief summary of my speech, as it could only be intelligible at full length from your having heard his. I told him that his opening had struck me with the highest admiration of his powers, from the eloquence, the imagination, the fire, the diversity of expression, and the ready flow of language, with which he seemed gifted, in a most superior manner, for any and every purpose to which rhetoric could lead. “And when he came to his two narratives,” I continued, “whence he related the particulars of those dreadful murders, he interested, he engaged, he at last overpowered me; I felt my cause lost. I Could hardly keep on my seat. My eyes dreaded a single glance towards a man so accused as Mr. Hastings; I wanted to sink on the floor, that they might be saved so painful a sight. I had no hope he could clear himself; not another wish in his favour remained. But When from this narration Mr. Burke proceeded to his own comments and declamation—when the charges of rapacity, cruelty, tyranny were general, and made with all the violence of personal detestation, and continued and aggravated without any further fact or illustration; then there appeared more of study than of truth, more of invective than of justice; and, in short, so little of proof to so much of passion, that in a very short time I began to lift up my head, my seat was no longer uneasy, my eyes were indifferent which way they looked, or what object caught them; and before I was myself aware of the declension of Mr. Burke’s powers over my feelings, I found myself a mere spectator in a public place, and looking all around it, with my opera-glass in my hand.”
His eyes sought the ground on hearing this, and with no other comment than a rather uncomfortable shrug of the shoulders, he expressively and concisely said—“I comprehend you perfectly!”
This was a hearing too favourable to stop me; and Mr. Hastings constantly before me was an animation to my spirits which nothing less could have given me, to a manager of such a committee.
I next, therefore, began upon Mr. Fox; and I ran through the general matter of his speech, with such observations as had occurred to me in hearing it. “His violence,” I said, “had that sort of monotony that seemed to result from its being factitious, and I felt less pardon for that than for any extravagance in Mr. Burke, whose excesses seemed at least to be unaffected, and, if they spoke against his judgment, spared his probity. Mr. Fox appeared to have no such excuse; he looked all good humour and negligent ease the instant before he began a speech of uninterrupted passion and vehemence, and he wore the same careless and disengaged air the very instant he had finished. A display of talents in which the inward man took so little share could have no powers of persuasion to those who saw them in that light and therefore. however their brilliancy might be admired, they were useless to their cause, for they left the mind of the hearer in the same state that they found it.”
After a short vindication of his friends, he said, “You have never heard Pitt? You would like him beyond any other competitor.”
And then he made his panegyric in very strong terms, allowing him to be equal, ready, splendid, wonderful!—he was in constant astonishment himself at his powers and success;—his youth and inexperience never seemed against him: though he mounted to his present height after and in opposition to such a vortex of splendid abilities, yet, alone and unsupported, he coped with them all! And then, with conscious generosity, he finished a most noble éloge with these words: “Take—you may take—the testimony of an enemy—a very confirmed enemy of Mr. Pitt’s!”
Not very confirmed, I hope! A man so liberal can harbour no enmity of that dreadful malignancy that sets mitigation at defiance for ever.
He then asked me if I had heard Mr. Grey? “No,” I answered, “I can come but seldom, and therefore I reserved myself for to-day.”
“You really fill me with compunction,” he cried. “But if, indeed, I have drawn you into so cruel a waste of your time, the only compensation I can make you will be carefully to keep from you the day when I shall really speak.”
“No,” I answered, “I must hear you; for that is all I now wait for to make up my final opinion.”
“And does it all rest with me?—‘Dreadful responsibility’—as Mr. Hastings powerfully enough expresses himself in his narrative.”
“And can you allow an expression of Mr. Hastings’s to be powerful?—That is not like Mr. Fox, who, in acknowledging some one small thing to be right, in his speech, checked himself for the acknowledgment by hastily saying ‘Though I am no great admirer of the genius and abilities of the gentleman at the bar;’—as if he had pronounced a sentence in a parenthesis, between hooks,—so rapidly he flew off to what he could positively censure.”
“And hooks they were indeed he cried.
“Do not inform against me,” I continued, “and I will give you a little more of Molière’s old woman.”
He gave me his parole, and looked very curious, “Well then,—amongst the things most striking to an unbiased spectator was that action of the orator that led him to look full at the prisoner upon every hard part of the charge. There was no courage in it, since the accused is so situated he must make no answer; and, not being courage, to Molière’s old woman it could only seem cruelty!”
He quite gave up this point without a defence, except telling me it was from the habit of the House of Commons, as Fox, who chiefly had done this, was a most good-humoured man, and by nothing but habit would have been betrayed into such an error.
“And another thing,” I cried, “which strikes those ignorant of senatorial licence, is this,—that those perpetual repetitions, from all the speakers, of inveighing against the power, the rapacity, the tyranny, the despotism of the gentleman at the bar, being uttered now, when we see him without any power, without even liberty-con fined to that spot, and the only person in this large assembly who may not leave it when he will—when we see such a contrast to all we hear we think the simplest relation would be sufficient for all purposes of justice, as all that goes beyond plain narrative, instead of sharpening indignation, only calls to mind the greatness of the fall, and raises involuntary commiseration!”
“And you wish,” he cried, “to hear me? How you add to my difficulties!—for now, instead of thinking of Lords, Commons, bishops, and judges before me, and of the delinquent and his counsel at my side, I shall have every thought and faculty swallowed up in thinking of who is behind me!”
This civil speech put an end to Molière’s old woman and her comments; and not to have him wonder at her unnecessarily, I said, “Now, then, Mr. Windham, shall I tell you fairly what it is that induced me to say all this to you?—Dr. Johnson!—what I have heard from him of Mr. Windham has been the cause of all this hazardous openness.”
“‘Twas a noble cause,” cried he, well pleased, “and noble has been its effect! I loved him, indeed, sincerely. He has left a chasm in my heart-a chasm in the world! There was in him what I never saw before, what I never shall find again! I lament every moment as lost, that I might have spent in his society, and yet gave to any other.”
How it delighted me to hear this just praise, thus warmly uttered!—I could speak from this moment upon no other subject. I told him how much it gratified me; and we agreed in comparing notes upon the very few opportunities his real remaining friends could now meet with of a similar indulgence, since so little was his intrinsic worth understood, while so deeply all his foibles had been felt, that in general it was merely a matter of pain to hear him even named.
How did we then emulate each other in calling to mind all his excellences!
“His abilities,” cried Mr. Windham, “were gigantic, and always at hand no matter for the subject, he had information ready for everything. He was fertile,—he was universal.”
My praise of him was of a still more solid kind,—his principles, his piety, his kind heart under all its rough coating: but I need not repeat what I said,—my dear friends know every word.
I reminded him of the airings, in which he gave his time with his carriage for the benefit of Dr. Johnson’s health. “What an advantage!” he cried, “was all that to myself! I had not merely an admiration, but a tenderness for him,—the more I knew him, the stronger it became. We never disagreed; even in politics, I found it rather words than things in which we differed.”
“And if you could so love him,” cried I, “knowing him only in a general way, what would you have felt for him had you known him at Streatham?”
I then gave him a little history of his manners and way of life, there,—his good humour, his sport, his kindness, his sociability, and all the many excellent qualities that, in the world at large, were by so many means obscured.
He was extremely interested in all I told him, and regrettingly said he had only known him in his worst days, when his health was upon its decline, and infirmities were crowding fast upon him.
“Had he lived longer,” he cried, “I am satisfied I should have taken to him almost wholly. I should have taken him to my heart! have looked up to him, applied to him, advised with him in all the most essential occurrences of my life! I am sure, too,—though it is a proud assertion,—he would have liked me, also, better, had we mingled more. I felt a mixed fondness and reverence growing so strong upon me, that I am satisfied the closest union would have followed his longer life.”
I then mentioned how kindly he had taken his visit to him at Lichfield during a severe illness, “And he left you,” I said, “a book?" “Yes,” he answered, “and he gave me one, also, just before he died. ‘You will look into this Sometimes,’ he said, ‘and not refuse to remember whence you had it.’”271
And then he added he had heard him speak of me,—and with so much kindness, that I was forced not to press a recapitulation: yet now I wish I had heard it.
Just before we broke up, “There is nothing,” he cried, with energy, “for which I look back upon myself with severer discipline than the time I have thrown away in other pursuits, that might else have been devoted to that wonderful man!” He then said he must be gone,—he was one in a committee of the House, and could keep away no longer.