noble and learned lord, "on such an
occasion, is entitled to entertain any personal feelings on his own
behalf, it would be affectation--it would be insolent ingratitude--were
I not to express the sentiments which glow within my bosom, at being
made the instrument of making known those feelings which reign
predominant in yours. Enough, however, of myself--now for my mighty
subject.--But the choice you have made of your instrument--of your
organ, as it were, on this occasion--is not unconnected with that
subject; for it shows that on this day, on this occasion, all personal,
all political feelings are quelled--all strife of party is hushed--that
we are incapable, whatever be our opinions, of refusing to acknowledge
transcendant merit, and of denying that we feel the irresistible impulse
of unbounded gratitude; and I am therefore asked to do this service, as
if to show that no difference of opinion upon subjects, however
important--no long course of opposition, however contracted upon public
principles--not even long inveterate habits of public opposition--are
able so far to stifle the natural feelings of our hearts, so far to
obscure our reason, as to prevent us from feeling as we ought--boundless
gratitude for boundless merit. Neither can it pluck from our minds that
admiration proportioned to the transcendant genius, in peace and in war,
of him who is amongst us to-day; nor can it lighten or alleviate the
painful, the deep sense which the untried mind never can get rid of when
it is overwhelmed by a debt of gratitude, too boundless to be repaid.
Party--the spirit of party--may do much, but it cannot operate so far as
to make us forget those services; it cannot so far bewilder the memory,
and pervert the judgment, and eradicate from our bosoms those feelings
which do us the most honour, and are the most unavoidable, and, as it
were, dry up the kindly juices of the heart; and, notwithstanding all
its vile and malignant influence on other occasions, it cannot dry up
those juices of the heart so as to parch it like very charcoal, and make
it almost as black. But what else have I to do? If I had all the
eloquence of all the tongues ever attuned to speak, what else could I
do? How could a thousand words, or all the names that could be named,
speak so powerfully--ay, even if I spoke with the tongue of an angel, as
if I were to mention one word--Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington,
the hero of a hundred fields, in all of wh