slightest aspiration might still quiver on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, wisdom, and benevolence-that while one drop of life's blood might still warm that heart, which throbbed only for the good of mankind-I should not, I could not have acted otherwise.

There is in true friendship this advantage, that the inferior mind looks to the presiding intellect, as its guide and landmark while living, and to the engraven memory of his principles as a rule of conduct after his death. Yet farther still, unmixed with any idle superstition, there may be gained a salutary lesson from contemplating what would be grateful to the mind of the departed, were he conscious of what is passing here. I do solemnly believe, that could such a consideration have entered into Mr. Fox's last moments-there is nothing his wasted spirits would so have deprecated, as a contest of the nature which I now deprecate and relinquish.

Gentlemen! the hour is not far distant, when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your revered patriot are passing through your streets, to that sepulchral home, where your kings-your heroes-your sages-and your poets, will be honoured by an association with his mortal remains. At that hour when the sad solemnity shall take place, in a private way, as more suited to the simple dignity of his character, than the splendid gaudiness of public pageantry; when you, all of you, shall be self-marshalled in reverential sorrow-mute, and reflecting on your mighty lossat that moment shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of such a scene? Is it fitting that any man should overlook

the crisis, and risk the monstrous and disgusting contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man? R. B. SHERIDAN.

EULOGY ON MR. SHERIDAN.*

MR. SHERIDAN IS NO MORE!-What a volume is included in these few words, even when they are applied to the humblest individual! The loss of father, or son, of him who was the stay and support of declining age or feeble youth! whose counsels guided, whose affections gladdened the little circle around him! All this mind, all this heart, to be mute and motionless and dumb for ever! But when a Sheridan is withdrawn from us--the master mind, the master genius! talents which have adorned and dignified the country in which he was born, and the age in which he lived-the first statesman, the first orator, the first poet, the first wit-when such a man is taken from us, what a vast chasm! what an irreparable loss! That so much genius, that so much mind can die! To Mr. Sheridan belonged every kind of intellectual excellence-Omne genus tetigit—nullum tetigit quod non ornavit.

As a dramatic writer, forty years have elapsed since The School for Scandal was brought out, and yet what writer has produced any comedy to be put in competition with it? Who has equalled The Critic? As a poet, who has surpassed the Monody on the death of Garrick? As an orator (with the exception of Pitt and Burke,) who excelled him? He had strength without coarseness,

*This beautiful eulogy appeared in one of the London prints at the time of Mr. Sheridan's death.

liveliness without frivolity; he was bold, but dextrous in his attacks-not easily repelled, but when repelled, effecting his retreat in good order. Often severe much oftener witty, and gay, and graceful -disentangling what was confused-enlivening what was dull-very clear in his arrangementvery comprehensive in his views;-flashing upon his hearers with such a burst of brilliancy! when no other speaker was listened to, he could arrest and chain down the members to their seats-all hanging upon him with the most eager attention -all fixed in wonder and delight; he never tired -he could adapt himself more than any other man, to all minds, and to all capacities;-" From grave to gay, from lively to severe." Every quality of an orator was united in him-the mind-the eye, quick, sparkling, penetrating, matchless almost for brilliancy and expression-the attitude, the gesture, the voice. Mr. Pitt had more dignity, more copiousness, more grasp, more sarcasm. But, in richness of imagery, he was inferior to Sheridan, who had no superior but Burke. He was less powerful and commanding in argument than Mr. Fox, but this was the only advantage Mr. Fox had over him. As an orator we should place him after Pitt and Burke. A friend to the liberty of the press, he was ardent, uniform, and sincere. He never relaxed in his efforts: he was not one of those who would disguise their fears of its power under affected apprehensions of its licentiousness; he knew that every great institution has its defects: he did not wish to cut down the tree because of an excrescence on one of its branches.

From political life he had been long withdrawn. His retirement was unwilling, and he had not in it the comforts that should accompany retirement.

We fear that he had not even personal security; and that grief may have had no small share in withdrawing from our sphere so splendid a luminary, the last of that constellation of great men, who rendered the senate of Great Britain more illustrious than the senates either of Athens, or of Rome.

ANONYMOUS.

THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.

FOR six years' Sabbaths I had seen the ELDER in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit--and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance, during sermon, psalm and prayer. On returning to the scenes of my infancy, I met the Pastor going to pray by his death-bed-and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death.

And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the Pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and beauty, and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man whom we understood was now lying on his deathbed. "They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is," said the Minister, looking tenderly on the boy; “but love

makes the young heart bold-and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."

As we slowly approached the cottage, through a deep snow-drift, which the distress within had prevented the inmates from removing, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared, and then their mother showed herself in their stead, expressing, by her raised eyes, and arms folded across her breast, how thankful she was to see, at last, the Pastor, beloved in joy, and trusted in trouble.

A few words sufficed to say who was the stranger-and the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to me his cold shrivelled hand in token of recognition. I took my seat at a small distance from the bed-side, and left a closer station for those who were more dear. The Pastor sat down near the Elder's head-and by the bed, leaning on it with gentle hands, stood that matron, his daughterin-law: a figure that would have sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty was now more touching in its grief. But religion upheld her whom nature was bowing down; not now for the first time were the lessons taught by her father to be put into practice, for I saw that she was clothed in deep mourning-and she behaved like the daughter of a man whose life had not only been irreproachable, but lofty, with fear and hope fight. ing desperately, but silently, in the core of her pure and pious heart.

"If the storm do not abate," said the sick man after a pause, "it will be hard for my friends to carry me over the drifts to the kirk-yard." This sudden approach to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving boy; and with a