“Although no man,” said the 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 which his banner was waved in triumph; who never, I invoke both hemispheres to witness—­bear witness Europe, bear witness Asia—­who never advanced but to cover his arms with glory; the captain who never advanced but to be victorious; the mightier captain who never retreated but to eclipse the glory of his advance, by the yet harder task of unwearied patience, indomitable to lassitude, the inexhaustible resources of transcendant skill, showing the wonders, the marvels of a moral courage never yet subdued.