g within it. After reading this speech for the
fiftieth time, the critic cannot free himself from the rapture of
admiration and amazement which he experienced in his first fresh
acquaintance with it. Yet its delivery in the House of Commons (February
28, 1785) produced an effect so slight, that Pitt, after a few minutes'
consultation with Grenville, concluded that it was not worth the trouble
of being answered; and the House of Commons, obedient to the Prime
Minister's direction, negatived, by a large majority, the motion in
advocating which Burke poured out the wonderful treasures of his
intellect and imagination. To be sure, the House was tired to death with
the discussion, was probably very sleepy, and the orator spoke five
hours after the members had already shouted, "Question! Question!"

The truth is, that this speech, unmatched though it is in the literature
of eloquence, had not, as has been previously stated, the air of
reality. It struck the House as a magnificent Oriental dream, as an
Arabian Nights' Entertainment, as a tale told by an inspired madman,
"full of sound and fury, signifying nothing"; and the evident partisan
intention of the orator to blast Pitt's administration by exhibiting its
complicity in one of the most enormous frauds recorded in history,
confirmed the dandies, the cockneys, the bankers, and the country
gentlemen, who, as members of the House of Commons, stood by Pitt with
all the combined force of their levity, their venality, and their
stupidity, in the propriety of voting Burke down. And even now, when the
substantial truth of all the facts he alleged is established on evidence
which convinces historians, the admiring reader can understand why it
failed to convince Burke's contemporaries, and why it still appears to
lack the characteristics of a speech thoroughly organized. Indeed, the
mind of Burke, when it was delivered, can only be compared to a volcanic
mountain in eruption;--not merely a volcano like that of Vesuvius,
visited by scientists and amateurs in crowds, when it deigns to pour
forth its flames and lava for the entertainment of the multitude; but a
lonely volcano, like that of Etna, rising far above Vesuvius in height,
far removed from all the vulgar curiosity of a body of tourists, but
rending the earth on which it stands with the mighty earthquake throes
of its fiery centre and heart. The moral passion,--perhaps it would be
more just to say the moral fury,--displayed in t