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still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood.

When I contemplate these things; when I know that the colonies in general owe little or nothing to any care of ours, and that they are not squeezed into this happy form by the constraints of a watchful and suspicious government, but that through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has been suffered to take her own way to perfection; when I reflect upon these effects, when I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the wisdom of human contrivances melt and die away within me. My rigour relents. I pardon something to the spirit of liberty.


GENTLEMEN, the end, which I confess I have always had in view, and which appears to me the legitimate object of pursuit to a British statesman, I can describe in one word. The language of modern philosophy is wisely and diffusively benevolent; it professes the perfection of our species, and the amelioration of the lot of all mankind. I hope that my heart beats as high for the general interest of humanity -I hope that I have as friendly a disposition towards other nations of the earth, as any one who vaunts his philanthropy most highly; but I am contented to confess, that in the conduct of political affairs, the grand object of my contemplation is the interest of England.

Not, that the interest of England is an interest which stands isolated and alone. The situation which she holds forbids an exclusive selfishness; her prosperity must contribute to the prosperity of other nations, and her stability to the safety of the world. But intimately connected as we are with the system of Europe, it does not follow, that we are therefore called upon to mix ourselves, on every occasion, with a restless and meddling activity, in the concerns of the nations which surround us.

Our ultimate object must be the peace of the world. That object may sometimes be best attained by prompt exertions sometimes by abstinence from interposition in con

tests which we cannot prevent. It is upon these principles, that it did not appear to the government of this country to be necessary, that Great Britain should mingle in the recent contest between France and Spain.

There were some, who would have rushed forward at once from the sense of indignation at aggression, and who deemed that no act of injustice could be perpetrated, from one end of the universe to the other, but that the sword of Great Britain should leap from its scabbard to avenge it. But is there any one who continues to doubt whether the government did wisely, in declining to obey the precipitate enthusiasm which prevailed at the commencement of the contest in Spain? Is there any man that does not now see what would have been the extent of burdens, that would have been cast upon this country? Is there any one who does not acknowledge that, under such circumstances, the enterprise would have been one, to be characterized only, by a term borrowed from that part of the Spanish literature with which we are most familiar,-Quixotic; an enterprise, romantic in its origin, and thankless in the end?

But while we thus control our feelings by our duty, let it not be said that we cultivate peace, because we are unprepared for war. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity, in which I have seen those mighty war-ships, that float in the waters above your town, is a proof they are devoid of strength, and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in perfect stillness, -how soon, upon any call of patriotism or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage-how quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these magnificent machines, when springing from inaction into a display of its might-such is England herself, while, apparently passive and motionless, she silently concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion.

But God forbid that that occasion should arise! After a war sustained for nearly a quarter of a century,—sometimes single-handed, and with all Europe arranged, at times, against her, or at her side,-England needs a period of tranquillity, and may enjoy it without fear of misconstruction.


YE brave associates, who so oft have shared
Our toil and danger in the field of glory,
My fellow warriours, what no god would promise,
Fortune has given us. In his dark embrace,
Lo! sleep envelopes the whole Grecian camp.
Against a foe, the outcasts of their country,
Freebooters, roving in pursuit of prey,
Success, by war or covert stratagem,
Alike is glorious. Then, my gallant friends,
What need of words? The generous call of freedom,
Your wives, your children, your invaded rights,
All that can steel the patriot breast with valour,
Expands and rouses in the swelling heart.
Follow the impulsive ardour; follow me,
Your king, your leader: in the friendly gloom
Of night assault their camp: your country's love
And fame eternal shall attend the men,

Who marched through blood and horrour, to redeem
From the invader's power, their native land.-
Unnumbered torches blazing all at once,
Shall be the signal of the deathful charge.
Then, oh! my friends,
On every side let the wild
uproar loose:
Bid massacre and carnage stalk around,
Unsparing, unrelenting; drench your swords
In hostile blood, and riot in destruction.


'Tis twice five years since that great man
(Great let me call him, for he conquered me,)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I, with pious rage, pursued revenge;
I then was young; he placed me near his person,
And thought me not dishonoured by his service.

One day, (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse of each succeeding year!)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me: (while I tell it, do I live?)
He smote me on the cheek!-I did not stab him:
That were poor revenge.-E'er since, his folly
Has striven to bury it beneath a heap

Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot:
Insolent thought, and like a second blow!
Has the dark adder venom? So have I,

When trod upon.
Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me!
By nightly march he purposed to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ready to receive his favour.
Failing in this, (a cast of utmost moment,)
Would darken all the conquests he has won.—
Be propitious, O Mahomet, on this important hour;
And give, at length, my famished soul revenge!



King Henry. My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

As you have found me: for accordingly,

You tread upon my patience: but, be sure,

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty, and to be feared, than my condition;

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect,

Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.
North. My good lord,

Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied,
As was delivered to your Majesty.

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners:
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose! and still he smiled, and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holyday and lady terms
He questioned me: amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf.

I, then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered negligently, I know not what-
He should, or should not—for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (Heaven save the

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was spermaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous salt-petre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good, tall fellow has destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.-
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered, indirectly, as I said;

And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

North. The circumstance considered, good my lord,

Whatever Harry Percy then hath said,
To such a person, and in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest retold,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it now.

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