His political life is written in the chronicles of his country.  Perhaps, as we have already intimated, his opinions on two or three great questions of foreign policy were open to just objection.  Yet even his errors, if he erred, were amiable and respectable.  We are not sure that we do not love and admire him the more because he was now and then seduced from what we regard as a wise policy by sympathy with the oppressed, by generosity towards the fallen, by a philanthropy so enlarged that it took in all nations, by love of peace, a love which in him was second only to the love of freedom, and by the magnanimous credulity of a mind which was as incapable of suspecting as of devising mischief.

To his views on questions of domestic policy the voice of his countrymen does ample justice.  They revere the memory of the man who was, during forty years, the constant protector of all oppressed races and persecuted sects, of the man whom neither the prejudices nor the interests belonging to his station could seduce from the path of right, of the noble, who in every great crisis cast in his lot with the commons, of the planter, who made manful war on the slave-trade of the landowner, whose whole heart was in the struggle against the corn-laws.

We have hitherto touched almost exclusively on those parts of Lord Holland’s character which were open to the observation of millions.  How shall we express the feelings with which his memory is cherished by those who were honoured with his friendship?  Or in what language shall we speak of that house, once celebrated for its rare attractions to the furthest ends of the civilised world, and now silent and desolate as the grave?  To that house, a hundred and twenty years ago, a poet addressed those tender and graceful lines, which have now acquired a new meaning not less sad than that which they originally bore: 

“Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race,
Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears,
O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? 
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air! 
How sweet the glooms beneath thine aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow and thine evening breeze
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thine evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.”

Yet a few years, and the shades and structures may follow their illustrious masters.  The wonderful city which, ancient and gigantic as it is, still continues to grow as fast as a young town of logwood by a water-privilege in Michigan, may soon displace those turrets and gardens which are associated with so much that is interesting and noble, with the courtly magnificence of Rich with the loves of Ormond, with the counsels of Cromwell, with the death of Addison.  The time is coming