26 April 1790 – 2 May 1790

I had the happiness of my dearest Fredy’s society in Westminster Hall—if happiness and that place may be named together. The day was mixed: Evidence and Mr. Anstruther weighing it down, and Mr. Burke speaking from time to time, and lighting it up. O, were his purpose worthy his talents, what an effect would his oratory produce! I always hear him with so much concern, I can scarce rejoice even in being kept awake by him. The day was nearly passed, and I was eating a biscuit to prevent an absolute doze while Mr. Anstruther was talking, when, raising myself from a listening bend, I turned to the left, and perceived Mr. Windham, who had quietly placed himself by my side without speaking. My surprise was so great, and so totally had I given up all idea of renewing our conferences, that I could scarce refrain expressing it. Probably it was visible enough, for he said, as if apologising for coming up, that so to do was the only regale their toils allowed them. He then regretted that it was a stupid day, and, with all his old civility about me and my time, declared he was always sorry to see me there when nothing worth attention was going forward. This soon brought us round to our former intimacy of converse; and, the moment I was able, I ventured at my usual inquiry about his own speaking, and if it would soon take place. “No,” he answered, with a look of great pleasure, “I shall now not speak at all.—I have cleared myself from that task, and never with such satisfaction did I get rid of any!” Amazed, yet internally glad, I hazarded some further inquiry into the reason of this change of plan. They were drawing, he said, to a conclusion, and the particular charge which he had engaged himself to open was relinquished. “I have therefore,” he cried, “washed my hands of making a speech, yet satisfied my conscience, my honour, my promises, and my intentions; for I have declined undertaking anything new, and no claim therefore remains upon me.” “Well,” quoth I, “I am at a loss whether to be glad or sorry.” He comprehended instantly,—glad for Mr. Hastings, or sorry for not hearing him. He laughed, but said something a little reproachful, upon my continued interest for that gentleman. I would not pretend it was diminished; I determined he should find me as frank as heretofore, and abscond, or abide, as his nerves stood the firmness. “You are never, then” (I said afterwards), “to speak here?” “Once,” he answered, “I said a few words—” “O when?” I cried; “I am very sorry I did not know it, and hear you,—as you did speak!” “O,” cried he, laughing, “I do not fear this flattery now, as I shall speak no more.” “But what,” cried I, “was the occasion that drew you forth?” “Nothing very material but I saw Burke run hard, and I wished to help him.” “That was just,” cried I, “what I should have expected from you—and just what I have not been able not to honour, on some other occasions, even where I have most blamed the matter that has drawn forth the assistance.” This was going pretty far:—he could not but instantly feel I meant the Regency discussions. He neither made me any answer, nor turned his head, even obliquely, my way. I was not sorry, however. ‘Tis always best to be sincere. Finding him quite silent, to soften matters as well as I could with honesty, I began an éloge of Mr. Burke, both warm and true, as far as regards his wonderful abilities. But he soon distinguished the rigorous precision with which, Involuntarily, I praised the powers without adverting to their Use. Suddenly then, and with a look of extreme keenness, he turned his eyes upon me, and exclaimed, “Yes,—and he has very highly, also the faculty of being right!” I would the friendship that dictated this assertion were as unwarped as it is animated. I could not help saying rather faintly, “Has he?” Not faintly he answered, “He has!—but not the world alone, even his friends, are apt to misjudge him. What he enters upon, however with earnestness, YOU will commonly find turn out as he represents it.” His genius, his mental faculties, and the natural goodness of his heart, I then praised as warmly as Mr. Windham could have praised them himself; but the subject ran me aground a second time, as, quite undesignedly, I concluded my panegyric with declaring that I found it impossible not to admire,—nay, love him, through all his wrong. Ending another total silence and averted head, I started something more general upon the trial. His openness then returned, with all its customary vivacity, and he expressed himself extremely irritated upon various matters which had been carried against the managers by the judges. “But, Mr. Windham!” exclaimed I, “the judges!—is it possible you can enter into such a notion as to suppose Mr. Hastings capable of bribing them?” “O, for capable,” cried he, “I don’t know—” “Well, leave that word out, and suppose him even willing—can you imagine all the judges and all the lords—for they must concur— disposed to be bribed?” “No; but I see them all determined to acquit Mr. Hastings.” “Determined?—nay, that indeed is doing him very little honour.” “O, for honour!—if he is acquitted—” He stopped,—as if that were sufficient. I ventured to ask why the judges and the lords-should make such a determination. “From the general knavery and villainy of mankind.” was his hard answer, “which always wishes to abet successful guilt.” “Well!” cried I, shaking my head, “you have not, relinquished your speech from having nothing to say. But I am glad you have relinquished it, for I have always been most afraid of you; and the reason is, those who know how to hold back will not for nothing come forward. There is one down there, who, if he knew how ever to hold back, would be great indeed!” He could not deny this, but would not affirm it. Poor Mr. Burke!—so near to being wholly right, while yet wholly wrong! When Mr. Burke mounted the rostrum, Mr. Windham stopped short, saying, “I won’t interrupt you-” and, in a moment, glided back to the managers’ box; where he stood behind Mr. Burke, evidently at hand to assist in any difficulty. His affection for him seems to amount to fondness. This is not for me to wonder at. Who was so captivated as myself by that extraordinary man, till he would no longer suffer me to reverence the talents I must still ever admire?

This morning, in my way to church, just as I arrived at the iron gate of our courtyard, a well-known voice called out, “Ah, there’s Miss Burney!” I started, and looked round—and saw—Mrs. Piozzi! I hastened up to her; she met my held-out hand with both hers: Mr. Piozzi an Cecilia were with her—all smiling and good-humoured. “You are going,” she cried, “to church?—so, am I. I must run first to the inn: I suppose one—may sit—anywhere one pleases?” “Yes,” I cried, “but you must be quick, or you will sit nowhere, there will be such a throng.” This was all;—she hurried on,—so did I. I received exceeding great satisfaction in this little and unexpected meeting. She had been upon the Terrace, and was going to change her hat, and haste on both sides prevented awkwardness on either. Yet I saw she had taken in good part my concluding hand-presentation at my dear Mr. Locke’s: she met me no more with that fierte of defiance: it was not—nor can it ever be with her old cordiality, but it was with some degree of pleasure, and that species of readiness which evinces a consciousness of meeting with a good reception.