without even a decent English education, for Sheridan knew comparatively little of history and literature, certainly less than the men against whom he was pitted or whose powers he emulated.  He has been known to say to his friends, when asked to take part with them on some important question, ‘You know I’m an ignoramus—­instruct me and I’ll do my best.’  He had even to rub up his arithmetic when he thought he had some chance of being made Chancellor of the Exchequer; but, perhaps, many a statesman before and after him has done as much as that.

No wonder that after such a speech in the House, the celebrated trial which commenced in the beginning of the following year should have roused the attention of the whole nation.  The proceedings opened in Westminster Hall, the noblest room in England, on the 13th of February, 1788.  The Queen and four of her daughters were seated in the Duke of Newcastle’s box; the Prince of Wales walked in at the head of a hundred and fifty peers of the realm.  The spectacle was imposing enough.  But the trial proceeded slowly for some months, and it was not till the 3rd of June that Sheridan rose to make his second great speech on this subject.

The excitement was then at its highest.  Two-thirds of the peers with the peeresses and their daughters were present, and the whole of the vast hall was crowded to excess.  The sun shone in brightly to light up the gloomy building, and the whole scene was splendid.  Such was the enthusiasm that people paid fifty guineas for a ticket to hear the first orator of his day, for such he then was.  The actor’s son felt the enlivening influence of a full audience.  He had been long preparing for this moment, and he threw into his speech all the theatrical effect of which he had studied much and inherited more.  He spoke for many hours on the 3rd, 5th, and 6th, and concluded with these words: 

’They (the House of Commons) exhort you by everything that calls sublimely upon the heart of man, by the majesty of that justice which this bold man has libelled, by the wide fame of your own tribunal, by the sacred pledges by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision, knowing that that decision will then bring you the highest reward that ever blessed the heart of man, the consciousness of having done the greatest act of mercy for the world that the earth has ever yet received from any hand but heaven!—­My Lords, I have done.’

Sheridan’s valet was very proud of his master’s success, and as he had been to hear the speech, was asked what part he considered the finest.  Plush replied by putting himself into his master’s attitude, and imitating his voice admirably, solemnly uttering, ’My Lords, I have done!’ He should have added the word ‘nothing.’  Sheridan’s eloquence had no more effect than the clear proof of Hastings’ guilt, and the impeachment, as usual, was but a troublesome subterfuge, to satisfy the Opposition and dust the eyeballs of the country.