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the power of an object upon our passions, we must know that, when any thing is intended to affect the mind by the force of some predominate property, the affection produced is like to be the more uniform and perfect, if all the other properties cr qualities of the object be of the same nature, and tending to the same design as the principal:

If black and white blend, soften, and unite
A thousand ways, is there no black and white ?

If the qualities of the sublime and beautiful are sometimes found united, does this prove that they are the same; does it prove that they are any way allied ; does it prove even that they are not opposite and contradictory? Black and white may soften, may blend, but they are not, therefore, the same. Nor, when they are 80 softened and blended with each other, or with different colors, is the power of black as black, or of white as white, so strong as when each stands uniform and distinguished.

ACCOUNT OF HIS SON'S DEATH.

Had it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should have left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honour, in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have re-purchased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment whatever, but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment, the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied.

But a Disposer, whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wisdom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, and (whatever my querulous weakness might suggest,) a far better. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honours, I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth! There, and prostrate there, I most unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a considerable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbours of his who visited his dunghill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. Indeed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in this hard season I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honour in this world. This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury; it is a privilege; it is an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace as we are made to shrink from pain and poverty, and disease. It is an instinct, and under the direction of reason, instinct is always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me; they who should have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation (which ever must subsist in memory) that act of piety, which he would have performed to me; I owe it to him to show, that he was not descended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from ar

an unworthy parent.

THE BRITISH MONARCHY

The learned professors of the rights of man regard prescription, not as a title to bar all claim, set up against old possession; but they look on prescription itself as a bar against the possessor and proprietor. They hold an immemorial possession to be no more than a long-continued, and therefore an aggravated injustice. Such are their ideas, such their religion, and such their law. But as to our country and our race, as long as the well-compacted structure of our church and state, the sanctuary, the holy of holies of that ancient law, defended by reverence, defended by power,

fortress at once and a temple, shall stand inviolate on the brow of the British Lion -as long as the British monarchy, not more limited than fenced by the orders of the state, shall like the proud keep of Windsor, rising in the majesty of proportion, and girt with the double belt of its kindred and coeval towers—as long as this awful structure shall oversee and guard the subjected land, so long the mounds and dikes of the low fat Bedford Level will have nothing to fear from all the pickaxes of all the levellers of France. As long as our sovereign lord the king, and his faithful subjects, the lords and commons of this realm--the triple cord which no man can break; the solemn, sworn, constitutional frankpledge of this nation; the firm guarantee of each other's being, and each other's rights; the joints and several securities, each in its place and order, for every kind and every quality of property and of dignity—as long as these endure, so long the Duke of Bedford is safe; and we are all safe to gether—the high from the blights of envy and the spoliations of rapacity; the low from the iron hand of oppression, and the insolent spurn of contempt.

MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, deco rating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in--glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to that enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters follow upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigaʻed ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness.

The Letters of Junius, which long since took their place among the standard works of English literature, began to appear in the Public Advertiser, the most popular journal of the day, on the twenty-first of January, 1769. The pation was, at that period, in a state of great excitement. The contest with the American colonies, the imposition of new taxes, the difficulty of forming a steady and permanent administration, and the great ability and eloquence of the opposition, had tended to spread a feeling of dissatisfaction throughout the whole country. Woodfall, the publisher of the ‘Advertiser,' was a man of education and influence; and this circumstance contributed to add to the weight of these anonymous communications. The letters, which afterwards appeared in a volume, under the name of Junius, were the most distinguished of those sent to the publisher, and before they assumed a permanent form, were carefully revised, elaborated, and highly polished. They attacked all the public characters of the day connected with the government, they retailed much private scandal and personal history, and did not spare even royalty itself. The compression, point, and brilliancy of their language, their unrivalled sarcasm, boldness, and tremendous invective, at once arrested the attention of the public; and, accordingly, every effort that could be devised by the government, or prompted by private indignation, was made, but in vain, to discover their author. The mystery continued to perplex every one interested in the subject until 1816, when a work appeared, under the title of ‘Junius Identified with a Celebrated Living Character.' The living character was the late Sir Philip Francis, and certainly a mass of strong circumstantial evidence has been presented in his favor. "The external evidence,' says Macaulay,“ is, we think, such as would support a verdict in a civil, nay, in a criminal proceeding. As this question does not affect the literary character of the work, we shall assume that the mystery is revealed.

Philip FRANCIS was the son of the Rev. Dr. Francis, translator of Horace, and was born in Dublin, in 1740. He was educated at St. Paul's school, and at the early age of sixteen, was placed, by Lord Holland, in the secretary of state's office. By the patronage of Lord Chatham, he was, in 1758, made secretary to General Bligh, and was present at the capture of Cherburgh. In 1760, he accompanied Lord Kinnoul, as secretary on his embassy to Lisbon; and three years afterwards he was appointed to a considerable situation in the war office, which he held till 1772. The next year he was made a member of the council appointed for the government of Bengal, whence he returned, in 1781, after being perpetually at war with the governor-general, Warren Hastings, and being wounded by him in a duel. He afterwards sat in Parliament as a Whig, and was one of the * Friends of the People' in association with Fox, Gray, and others. His death occurred in 1818, in the seventy-ninth year of his age.

It must be confessed that the speeches and letters of Sir Philip Francis evince much of the talent found in Junius, though they are less rhetorical

VOL. II.—2 P

in style; while the history and disposition of the man—his strong resent ments, his arrogance, his interest in the public questions of the day, evinced by his numerous pamphlets, even in advanced age, and the whole complexion of his party and political sentiments, are what we should expect from Woodfall's correspondent. High and commanding qualities he undoubtedly possessed; nor was he without genuine patriotic feelings, and a desire to labor earnestly for the public good. His error lay in mistaking his private enmities for public virtue, and nursing his resentments till they attained a dark and unsocial malignity. His temper was irritable and gloomy, and often led him to form mistaken and uncharitable estimates of men and measures. Though a single letter from this extraordinary series will not be sufficient to illustrate the point and brilliancy of this remarkable writer, yet we have no om for more; and we select the one to the Duke of Bedford :

am.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD.

September 19, 1769. My Lord,

You are so little accustomed to receive any marks of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following lines, a compliment or expression of applause should escape me, I fear you would consider it as a mockery of your established character; and, perhaps, an insult to your understanding. You have nice feelings, my Lord, if we may judge from your resentments. Cautious, therefore, of giving offence, where you have so little deserved it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues to other hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the easiness of your temper, or possibly they are better acquainted with your good qualities than I

You have done good by stealth. The rest is upon record. You have still left ample room for speculation, when panegyric is exhausted.

You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest rank; a splendid fortune, and a name, glorious, till it was yours; were sufficient to have supported you with meaner abilities than I think you possess. From the first, you derived a constitutional claim to respect; from the second, a natural extensive authority: the last created a partial expectation of hereditary virtues. The use you have made of these uncommon advantages, might have been more honourable to yourself, but could not be more instructive to mankind. We may trace it in the veneration of your country, the choice of your friends, and in the accomplishment of every sanguine hope which the public might have conceived from the illustrious name of Russel.

The eminence of your station gave you a commanding prospect of your duty.The road which led to honour, was open to your view. You could not lose it by mistake, and you had no temptation to depart from it by design. Compare the natural dignity and importance of the highest peer of England: the noble independence which he might have maintained in parliament; and the real interest and respect which he might have acquired, not only in parliament, but through the whole kingdom; compare these glorious distinctions, with the ambition of holding a share in government, the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough, or the purchase of a corporation, and though you may regret the virtues which create respect, you may see with anguish how much real importance and authority you have lost. Consider the character of an independent virtuous Duke of Bedford; imagine what he might be in this country; then reflect one moment upon what you are. If it be possible for me to withdraw my attention from the fact, I will tell you in the theory what such a man might be.

Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct in parliament would be

directed by nothing but the constitutional duty of a peer. He would consider himself as a guardian of the laws. Willing to support the just measures of government, but determined to observe the conduct of the minister with suspicion; he would oppose the violence of faction with as much firmness as the encroachments of prerogative. He would be as little capable of bargaining with the minister for places for himself, or his dependents, as of descending to mix himself in the intrigues of opposition. Whenever an important question called for his opinion in parliament, he would be heard by the most profligate ministers with deference and respect. His authority would either sanctify or disgrace the measures of government. The people would look up to him as their protector; and a virtuous prince would have one honest man in his dominions, in whose integrity and judgment he might confide. If it should be the will of Providence to afflicti him with a domestic misfortune, he would submit to the stroke with feeling, but not without dignity. He would consider the people as his children, and receive a generous, heartfelt consolation, in the sympathizing tears and blessings of his country.

Your Grace may probably discover something more intelligible in the negative part of this illustrious character. The man I have described would never prostitute his dignity in parliament by an indecent violence, either in opposing or defending a minister. He would not at one moment rancorously persecute, at another basely cringe, to the favourite of his Sovereign. After outraging the royal dignity with peremptory conditions, little short of menace and hostility, he would never descend to the humility of soliciting an interview2 with the favourite, and of offering to recover at any price, the honour of his friendship. Though deceived, perhaps in his youth, he would not, through the course of a long life, have invariably chosen his friends from among the most profligate of mankind. His own honour would have forbidden him mixing his private pleasures or conversation with jockeys, gamesters, blasphemers, gladiators, or buffoons. He would then have never felt, much less would he have submitted to, the dishonest necessity of engaging in the interests and intrigues of his dependents: of supplying their vices, or relieving their beggary, at the expense of his country. He would not have betrayed such ignorance, or such contempt, of the constitution, as openly to avow, in a court of justice, the purchase and sale3 of a borough. He would not have thought it consistent with his rank in the state, or even with his personal importance, to be the little tyrant of a little corporation. He would never have been insulted with virtues which he had laboured to extinguish, nor suffered the disgrace of a mortifying defeat, which has made him ridiculous and contemptible even to the few by whom he was not detested. I reverence the afflictions of a good man; his sorrows are sacred. But how can we take part in the distresses of a man whom we can neither love nor esteem ; or feel for a calamity of which he himself is insensible? Where was the father's heart, when he could look for, or find, an immediate consolation for the loss of an only son, in consultations and bargains for a place at court, and even in the misery of ballotting at the India House !

Admitting, then, that you have mistaken or deserted those honourable principles

1 The Duke had lately lost his only son by a fall from his horse.

2 At this interview, which passed at the house of the late Lord Eglingtoune, Lord Bute told the Duke that he was determined never to have any connection with a man who had so basely betrayed him.

3 In an answer in Chancery, in a suit against him to recover a large sum, paid him by a person whom he had undertaken to return to parliament for one of his Grace's boroughs, he was compelled to repay the money.

4 Of Bedford, where the tyrant was held in such contempt and detestation, that, in order to deliver themselves from him they admitted a great number of strangers to the freedom. To make his defeat truly ridiculous, he tried his whole strength against Mr. Horne, and was beaten upon his own ground.

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