been a man in the highest degree arrogant and insolent, a man prone to malevolence, and prone to the error of mistaking his malevolence for public virtue.  “Doest thou well to be angry?” was the question asked in old time of the Hebrew prophet.  And he answered, “I do well.”  This was evidently the temper of Junius; and to this cause we attribute the savage cruelty which disgraces several of his letters.  No man is so merciless as he who, under a strong self-delusion, confounds his antipathies with his duties.  It may be added that Junius, though allied with the democratic party by common enmities, was the very opposite of a democratic politician.  While attacking individuals with a ferocity which perpetually violated all the laws of literary warfare, he regarded the most defective parts of old institutions with a respect amounting to pedantry, pleaded the cause of Old Sarum with fervour, and contemptuously told the capitalists of Manchester and Leeds that, if they wanted votes, they might buy land and become freeholders of Lancashire and Yorkshire.  All this, we believe, might stand, with scarcely any change, for a character of Philip Francis.

It is not strange that the great anonymous writer should have been willing at that time to leave the country which had been so powerfully stirred by his eloquence.  Everything had gone against him.  That party which he clearly preferred to every other, the party of George Grenville, had been scattered by the death of its chief; and Lord Suffolk had led the greater part of it over to the ministerial benches.  The ferment produced by the Middlesex election had gone down.  Every faction must have been alike an object of aversion to Junius.  His opinions on domestic affairs separated him from the Ministry; his opinions on colonial affairs from the Opposition.  Under such circumstances, he had thrown down his pen in misanthropical despair.  His farewell letter to Woodfall bears date the nineteenth of January, 1773.  In that letter, he declared that he must be an idiot to write again; that he had meant well by the cause and the public; that both were given up; that there were not ten men who would act steadily together on any question.  “But it is all alike,” he added, “vile and contemptible.  You have never flinched that I know of; and I shall always rejoice to hear of your prosperity.”  These were the last words of Junius.  In a year from that time, Philip Francis was on his voyage to Bengal.

With the three new Councillors came out the judges of the Supreme Court.  The chief justice was Sir Elijah Impey.  He was an old acquaintance of Hastings; and it is probable that the Governor-General, if he had searched through all the inns of court, could not have found an equally serviceable tool.  But the members of Council were by no means in an obsequious mood.  Hastings greatly disliked the new form of government, and had no very high opinion of his coadjutors.  They had heard of this, and were