impossible that any progress could be made in the trial till the next
year. Hastings was admitted to bail; and further proceedings were
postponed till the Houses should reassemble.
When Parliament met in the following winter, the Commons proceeded to
elect a committee for managing the impeachment. Burke stood at the head;
and with him were associated most of the leading members of the
Opposition. But when the name of Francis was read a fierce contention
arose. It was said that Francis and Hastings were notoriously on bad
terms, that they had been at feud during many years, that on one
occasion their mutual aversion had impelled them to seek each other's
lives, and that it would be improper and indelicate to select a private
enemy to be a public accuser. It was urged on the other side with great
force, particularly by Mr. Windham, that impartiality, though the first
duty of a judge, had never been reckoned among the qualities of an
advocate; that in the ordinary administration of criminal justice among
the English, the aggrieved party, the very last person who ought to be
admitted into the jury-box, is the prosecutor; that what was wanted in a
manager was, not that he should be free from bias, but that he should be
able, well informed, energetic, and active. The ability and information
of Francis were admitted; and the very animosity with which he was
reproached, whether a virtue or a vice, was at least a pledge for his
energy and activity. It seems difficult to refute these arguments. But
the inveterate hatred borne by Francis to Hastings had excited general
disgust. The House decided that Francis should not be a manager. Pitt
voted with the majority, Dundas with the minority.
In the meantime, the preparations for the trial had proceeded rapidly;
and on the thirteenth of February, 1788, the sittings of the Court
commenced. There have been spectacles more dazzling to the eye, more
gorgeous with jewelry and cloth of gold, more attractive to grown-up
children, than that which was then exhibited at Westminster; but,
perhaps, there never was a spectacle so well calculated to strike a
highly cultivated, a reflecting, an imaginative mind. All the various
kinds of interest which belong to the near and to the distant, to the
present and to the past, were collected on one spot, and in one hour.
All the talents and all the accomplishments which are developed by
liberty and civilization were now displayed, with every advantage that
could be derived both from cooperation and from contrast. Every step in
the proceedings carried the mind either backward, through many troubled
centuries, to the days when the foundations of our Constitution were
laid, or far away, over boundless seas and deserts, to dusky nations
living under strange stars, worshipping strange gods, and writing
strange characters from right to left. The High Court of Parliament was
to sit, according to forms handed down from the days of the
Plantagenets, on an Englishman accused of exercising tyranny over the
lord of the holy city of Benares, and over the ladies of the princely
House of Oude.
The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great hall of William
Rufus, the hall which had resounded with acclamations at the
inauguration of thirty kings, the hall which had witnessed the just
sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of Somers, the hall where the
eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed and melted a victorious
party inflamed with just resentment, the hall where Charles had
confronted the High Court of Justice with the placid courage which has
half redeemed his fame. Neither military nor civil pomp was wanting. The
avenues were lined with grenadiers. The streets were kept clear by
cavalry. The peers, robed in gold and ermine, were marshalled by the
heralds under Garter King-at-arms. The judges in their vestments of
state attended to give advice on points of law. Near a hundred and
seventy lords, three fourths of the Upper House as the Upper House then
was, walked in solemn order from their usual place of assembling to the
tribunal. The junior baron present led the way, George Eliott, Lord
Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable defence of Gibraltar
against the fleets and armies of France and Spain. The long procession
was closed by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm, by the
great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons of the King. Last of all
came the Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his fine person and noble
bearing. The gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long galleries
were crowded by an audience such as has rarely excited the fears or the
emulation of an orator. There were gathered together, from all parts of
a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous empire, grace and female
loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives of every science and
of every art. There were seated round the Queen the fair-haired young
daughters of the House of Brunswick. There the Ambassadors of great
Kings and Commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle which no
other country in the world could present. There Siddons, in the prime of
her majestic beauty, looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the
imitations of the stage. There the historian of the Roman empire thought
of the days when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, and
when, before a senate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus
thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, side by
side, the greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the age. The
spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel which has preserved to us
the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and the sweet
smiles of so many noble matrons. It had induced Parr to suspend his
labors in that dark and profound mine from which he had extracted a vast
treasure of erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too
often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostentation, but still
precious, massive, and splendid. There appeared the voluptuous charms of
her to whom the heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith.
There too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the St.
Cecilia whose delicate features, lighted up by love and music, art has
rescued from the common decay. There were the members of that brilliant
society which quoted, criticised, and exchanged repartees, under the
rich peacock hangings of Mrs. Montague. And there the ladies whose lips,
more persuasive than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster
election against palace and treasury shone round Georgiana, Duchess of
Devonshire.
The Sergeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced to the bar, and bent
his knee. The culprit was indeed not unworthy of that great presence. He
had ruled an extensive and populous country, had made laws and
treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down princes.
And in his high place he had so borne himself that all had feared him,
that most had loved him, and that hatred itself could deny him no title
to glory, except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not like a bad
man. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage
which, while it indicated deference to the Court, indicated also
habitual self-possession and self-respect, a high and intellectual
forehead, a brow pensive but not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision,
a face pale and worn, but serene, on which was written, as legibly as
under the picture in the council chamber at Calcutta, _Mens aequa in
arduis_; such was the aspect with which the great proconsul presented
himself to his judges.
His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were afterwards raised by
their talents and learning to the highest posts in their profession, the
bold and strong-minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of the King's
Bench; the more humane and eloquent Dallas, afterwards Chief Justice of
the Common Pleas: and Plomer who, near twenty years later, successfully
conducted in the same high court the defence of Lord Melville, and
subsequently became Vice-Chancellor and Master of the Rolls.
But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so much notice as
the accusers. In the midst of the blaze of red drapery, a space had been
fitted up with green benches and tables for the Commons. The managers,
with Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The collectors of
gossip did not fail to remark that even Fox, generally so regardless of
his appearance, had paid to the illustrious tribunal the compliment of
wearing a bag and sword. Pitt had refused to be one of the conductors of
the impeachment; and his commanding, copious, and sonorous eloquence was
wanting to that great muster of various talents. Age and blindness had
unfitted Lord North for the duties of a public prosecutor; and his
friends were left without the help of his excellent sense, his tact,
and his urbanity. But, in spite of the absence of these two
distinguished members of the Lower House, the box in which the managers
stood contained an array of speakers such as perhaps had not appeared
together since the great age of Athenian eloquence. There were Fox and
Sheridan, the English Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There was
Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent of the art of adapting his
reasonings and his style to the capacity and taste of his hearers, but
in amplitude of comprehension and richness of imagination superior to
every orator, ancient or modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed on
Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of the age, his form developed by
every manly exercise, his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, the
ingenious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, though
surrounded by such men, did the youngest manager pass unnoticed. At an
age when most of those who distinguish themselves in life are still
contending for prizes and fellowships at collage, he had won for himself
a conspicuous place in Parliament. No advantage of fortune or connection
was wanting that could set off to the height his splendid talents and
his unblemished honor. At twenty-three he had been thought worthy to be
ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as the delegates of the
British Commons, at the bar of the British nobility. All who stood at
that bar, save him alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To the
generation which is now in the vigor of life, he is the sole
representative of a great age which has passed away. But those who,
within the last ten years, have listened with delight, till the morning
sun shone on the tapestries of the House of Lords, to the lofty and
animated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey are able to form some estimate
of the powers of a race of men among whom he was not the foremost.
The charges and the answers of Hastings were first read. The ceremony
occupied two whole days, and was rendered less tedious than it would
otherwise have been by the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the
clerk of the court, a near relation of the amiable poet. On the third
day Burke rose. Four sittings were occupied by his opening speech, which
was intended to be a general introduction to all the charges. With an
exuberance of thought and a splendor of diction which more than
satisfied the highly raised expectation of the audience, he described
the character and institutions of the natives of India, recounted the
circumstances in which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, and
set forth the constitution of the Company and of the English
Presidencies. Having thus attempted to communicate to his hearers an
idea of Eastern society, as vivid as that which existed in his own mind,
he proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings as systematically
conducted in defiance of morality and public law. The energy and pathos
of the great orator extorted expressions of unwonted admiration from the
stern and hostile Chancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce even
the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in the galleries,
unaccustomed to such displays of eloquence, excited by the solemnity of
the occasion, and perhaps not unwilling to display their taste and
sensibility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs
were pulled out; smelling-bottles were handed round; hysterical sobs and
screams were heard; and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At
length the orator concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of
Irish oak resounded, "Therefore," said he, "hath it with all confidence
been ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren
Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the name of
the Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach
him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honor he has
sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights
he has trodden under foot, and whose country he has turned into a
desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both
sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach
the common enemy and oppressor of all."
When the deep murmur of various emotions had subsided, Mr. Fox rose to
address the Lords respecting the course of proceeding to be followed.
The wish of the accusers was that the Court would bring to a close the
investigation of the first charge before the second was opened. The wish
of Hastings and of his counsel was that the managers should open all the
charges, and produce all the evidence for the prosecution, before the
defence began. The Lords retired to their own House to consider the
question. The Chancellor took the side of Hastings. Lord Loughborough,
who was now in opposition, supported the demand of the managers. The
division showed which way the inclination of the tribunal leaned. A
majority of near three to one decided in favor of the course for which
Hastings contended.
When the Court sat again, Mr. Fox, assisted by Mr. Grey, opened the
charge respecting Cheyte Sing, and several days were spent in reading
papers and hearing witnesses. The next article was that relating to the
Princesses of Oude. The conduct of this part of the case was entrusted
to Sheridan. The curiosity of the public to hear him was unbounded. His
sparkling and highly finished declamation lasted two days; but the hall
was crowded to suffocation during the whole time. It was said that fifty
guineas had been paid for a single ticket. Sheridan, when he concluded,
contrived, with a knowledge of stage effect which his father might have
envied, to sink back, as if exhausted, into the arms of Burke, who
hugged him with the energy of generous admiration.
June was now far advanced. The session could not last much longer; and
the progress which had been made in the impeachment was not very
satisfactory. There were twenty charges. On two only of these had even
the case for the prosecution been heard; and it was now a year since
Hastings had been admitted to bail.
The interest taken by the public in the trial was great when the Court
began to sit, and rose to the height when Sheridan spoke on the charge
relating to the Begums. From that time the excitement went down fast.
The spectacle had lost the attraction of novelty. The great displays of
rhetoric were over. What was behind was not of a nature to entice men of
letters from their books in the morning, or to tempt ladies who had left
the masquerade at two to be out of bed before eight. There remained
examinations and cross-examinations. There remained statements of
accounts. There remained the reading of papers, filled with words
unintelligible to English ears, with lacs and crores, zemindars and
aumils, sunnuds and perwannahs, jaghires and nuzzurs. There remained
bickerings, not always carried on with the best taste or with the best
temper, between the managers of the impeachment and the counsel for the
defence, particularly between Mr. Burke and Mr. Law. There remained the
endless marches and countermarches of the Peers between their House and
the hall: for as often as a point of law was to be discussed, their
Lordships retired to discuss it apart; and the consequence was, as a
Peer wittily said, that the Judges walked and the trial stood still.
It is to be added that, in the spring of 1788, when the trial commenced,
no important question, either of domestic or foreign policy, occupied
the public mind. The proceeding in Westminster Hall, therefore,
naturally attracted most of the attention of Parliament and of the
public. It was the one great event of that season. But in the following
year the King's illness, the debates on the Regency, the expectation of
a change of Ministry, completely diverted public attention from Indian
affairs; and within a fortnight after George the Third had returned
thanks in St. Paul's for his recovery, the States-General of France met
at Versailles. In the midst of the agitation produced by these events,
the impeachment was for a time almost forgotten.
The trial in the hall went on languidly. In the session of 1788, when
the proceedings had the interest of novelty, and when the Peers had
little other business before them, only thirty-five days were given to
the impeachment. In 1789 the Regency Bill occupied the Upper House till
the session was far advanced. When the King recovered the circuits were
beginning. The Judges left town; the Lords waited for the return of the
oracles of jurisprudence; and the consequence was that during the whole
year only seventeen days were given to the case of Hastings. It was
clear that the matter would be protracted to a length unprecedented in
the annals of criminal law.
In truth, it is impossible to deny that impeachment, though it is a fine
ceremony, and though it may have been useful in the seventeenth century,
is not a proceeding from which much good can now be expected. Whatever
confidence may be placed in the decision of the Peers on an appeal
arising out of ordinary litigation, it is certain that no man has the
least confidence in their impartiality when a great public functionary,
charged with a great state crime, is brought to their bar. They are all
politicians. There is hardly one among them whose vote on an impeachment
may not be confidently predicted before a witness has been examined;
and, even if it were possible to rely on their justice, they would still
be quite unfit to try such a cause as that of Hastings. They sit only
during half the year. They have to transact much legislative and much
judicial business. The law lords, whose advice is required to guide the
unlearned majority, are employed daily in administering justice
elsewhere. It is impossible, therefore, that during a busy session, the
Upper House should give more than a few days to an impeachment. To
expect that their Lordships would give up partridge-shooting, in order
to bring the greatest delinquent to speedy justice, or to relieve
accused innocence by speedy acquittal, would be unreasonable indeed. A
well-constituted tribunal, sitting regularly six days in the week, and
nine hours in the day, would have brought the trial of Hastings to a
close in less than three months. The Lords had not finished their work
in seven years.
The result ceased to be matter of doubt, from the time when the Lords
resolved that they would be guided by the rules of evidence which are
received in the inferior courts of the realm. Those rules, it is well
known, exclude much information which would be quite sufficient to
determine the conduct of any reasonable man, in the most important
transactions of private life. These rules, at every assizes, save scores
of culprits whom judges, jury, and spectators, firmly believe to be
guilty. But when those rules were rigidly applied to offences committed
many years before, at the distance of many thousands of miles,
conviction was, of course, out of the question. We do not blame the
accused and his counsel for availing themselves of every legal advantage
in order to obtain an acquittal. But it is clear that an acquittal so
obtained cannot be pleaded in bar of the judgment of history.
Several attempts were made by the friends of Hastings to put a stop to
the trial. In 1789 they proposed a vote of censure upon Burke, for some
violent language which he had used respecting the death of Nuncomar and
the connection between Hastings and Impey. Burke was then unpopular in
the last degree both with the House and with the country. The asperity
and indecency of some expressions which he had used during the debates
on the Regency had annoyed even his warmest friends. The vote of censure
was carried; and those who had moved it hoped that the managers would
resign in disgust. Burke was deeply hurt. But his zeal for what he
considered as the cause of justice and mercy triumphed over his personal
feelings. He received the censure of the House with dignity and
meekness, and declared that no personal mortification or humiliation
should induce him to flinch from the sacred duty which he had
undertaken.
In the following year the Parliament was dissolved, and the friends of
Hastings entertained a hope that the new House of Commons might not be
disposed to go on with the impeachment. They began by maintaining that
the whole proceeding was terminated by the dissolution. Defeated on this
point, they made a direct motion that the impeachment should be dropped;
but they were defeated by the combined forces of the Government and the
Opposition. It was, however, resolved that, for the sake of expedition,
many of the articles should be withdrawn. In truth, had not some such
measure been adopted, the trial would have lasted till the defendant was
in his grave.
At length, in the spring of 1795, the decision was pronounced, near
eight years after Hastings had been brought by the Sergeant-at-arms of
the Commons to the bar of the Lords. On the last day of this great
procedure the public curiosity, long suspended, seemed to be revived.
Anxiety about the judgment there could be none; for it had been fully
ascertained that there was a great majority for the defendant.
Nevertheless, many wished to see the pageant, and the hall was as much
crowded as on the first day. But those who, having been present on the
first day, now bore a part in the proceedings of the last, were few; and
most of those few were altered men.
As Hastings himself said, the arraignment had taken place before one
generation, and the judgment was pronounced by another. The spectator
could not look at the woolsack, or at the red benches of the Peers, or
at the green benches of the Commons, without seeing something that
reminded him of the instability of all human things, of the instability
of power and fame and life, of the more lamentable instability of
friendship. The Great Seal was borne before Lord Loughborough who, when
the trial commenced, was a fierce opponent of Mr. Pitt's government, and
who was now a member of that government, while Thurlow, who presided in
the Court when it first sat, estranged from all his old allies, sat
scowling among the junior barons. Of about a hundred and sixty nobles
who walked in the procession on the first day, sixty had been laid in
their family vaults. Still more affecting must have been the sight of
the managers' box. What had become of that fair fellowship, so closely
bound together by public and private ties, so resplendent with every
talent and accomplishment? It had been scattered by calamities more
bitter than the bitterness of death. The great chiefs were still living,
and still in the full vigor of their genius. But their friendship was at
an end. It had been violently and publicly dissolved, with tears and
stormy reproaches. If those men, once so dear to each other, were now
compelled to meet for the purpose of managing the impeachment, they met
as strangers whom public business had brought together, and behaved to
each other with cold and distant civility. Burke had in his vortex
whirled away Windham. Fox had been followed by Sheridan and Grey.