It was in the December of 1792 that Burke had enacted that famous bit of melodrama out of place known as the Dagger Scene.  The Government had brought in an Alien Bill, imposing certain pains and restrictions on foreigners coming to this country.  Fox denounced it as a concession to foolish alarms, and was followed by Burke, who began to storm as usual against murderous atheists.  Then without due preparation he began to fumble in his bosom, suddenly drew out a dagger, and with an extravagant gesture threw it on the floor of the House, crying that this was what they had to expect from their alliance with France.  The stroke missed its mark, and there was a general inclination to titter, until Burke, collecting himself for an effort, called upon them with a vehemence to which his listeners could not choose but respond, to keep French principles from their heads, and French daggers from their hearts; to preserve all their blandishments in life, and all their consolations in death; all the blessings of time, and all the hopes of eternity.  All this was not prepared long beforehand, for it seems that the dagger had only been shown to Burke on his way to the House as one that had been sent to Birmingham to be a pattern for a large order.  Whether prepared or unprepared, the scene was one from which we gladly avert our eyes.

Negotiations had been going on for some months, and they continued in various stages for some months longer, for a coalition between the two great parties of the State.  Burke was persistently anxious that Fox should join Pitt’s Government.  Pitt always admitted the importance of Fox’s abilities in the difficult affairs which lay before the ministry, and declared that he had no sort of personal animosity to Fox, but rather a personal good-will and good-liking.  Fox himself said of a coalition, “It is so damned right, to be sure, that I cannot help thinking it must be.”  But the difficulties were insuperable.  The more rapidly the Government drifted in Burke’s direction, the more impossible was it for a man of Fox’s political sympathies and convictions to have any dealings with a cabinet committed to a policy of irrational panic, to be carried out by a costly war abroad and cruel repression at home. “What a very wretched man!” was Burke’s angry exclamation one day, when it became certain that Fox meant to stand by the old flag of freedom and generous common sense.

When the coalition at length took place (1794), the only man who carried Burke’s principles to their fullest extent into Pitt’s cabinet was Windham.  It is impossible not to feel the attraction of Windham’s character, his amiability, his reverence for great and virtuous men, his passion for knowledge, the versatility of his interests.  He is a striking example of the fact that literature was a common pursuit and occupation to the chief statesmen of that time (always excepting Pitt), to an extent that has been gradually tending to become rarer.  Windham, in the midst