DEATH OF EDMUND BURKE'S SISTER AND BROTHER-DEATH OF HIS SON: HIS GRIEF IN CONSEQUENCE-EDMUND BURKE'S PENSION: HIS LETTER TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD RELATIVE TO IT-BURKE'S DECLINING HEALTH-HIS DEATH, FUNERAL, AND WILL-DR. KING, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER; SIR RICHARD BOURKE-EDMUND BURKE'S FAMILY AND REPRESENTATIVES-SALE OF HIS ESTATE AT BEACONSFIELD, AND ACCIDENTAL DESTRUCTION BY FIRE OF HIS SEAT-PERSONAL DESCRIPTION OF BURKE CONCLUDING REMARKS.

When his lov'd child the Roman could not save,
Immortal Tully, from an early grave,

No common forms his home-felt passion kept—
The sage, the patriot, and the parent wept.

The son fair rising knew too short a date;
But oh! how more severe the parent's fate!
He saw him torn untimely from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept, and died.

MALLET.

IN 1790, as already stated, death deprived Edmund Burke of his beloved sister. The year 1794 commenced with the loss of another of his dearest relatives. On the 4th February of that year, his brother Richard, Recorder of Bristol, departed this life. Burke was deeply afflicted. The sorrow he felt made him for some time withdraw from his attendance in parliament, and indeed confirmed him in his intention of more permanent retirement. The loss of his brother was a grievous deprivation. He had been his companion from his earliest years, and had constantly shared his fortunes, his pleasures, and his home. Towards the members of his own family Burke had a warmth of heart which made him regard them beyond every one else. He thought them all perfect. He accordingly looked up to his brother as a person of extraordinary abilities. Richard Burke, though not that, had nevertheless, as already mentioned, considerable wit, acuteness, and knowledge, and was very generally esteemed and respected. He died unmarried the 4th February, 1794.

:

The August of the same year brought upon Edmund Burke another calamity, which did more to undermine his energies and to sap his vitality than all the toil and turmoil of his previous life. This was the premature death of that only and beloved son, about whom he had augured so fondly and so proudly-the child that was to be the stay and solace of the father in his declining agethe heir not only of his renown, but of a fame far brighter than his

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own. Young Burke possessed much to justify parental affection. He had talents excellent in themselves, and assiduously cultivated. His attainments were extensive, for his studies were directed and his mind formed under his father, a man himself of boundless information-a man whose most casual conversation was rich with instruction—a man, too, who believed that almost every thing might be accomplished by industry, and who was the mortal enemy to those great allies of ignorance-sloth and dissipation. The son was amiable in disposition, and was devotedly attached to his parents. As he grew up, he gave proof of considerable ability. Even with the interrupted attention to business which his delicate health permitted, he had earned the high opinion of men of rank and talents; an opinion which his conduct as agent for the Catholics of Ireland confirmed. He had shown himself deeply conversant with the history and constitution both of Ireland and Great Britain. He is said to have aided his father in collating some of the instances of speeches and opinions by the old Whigs, to whom Edmund Burke in his pamphlet appealed from the new. The father looked upon the son-no doubt a really clever man

-as far more than that; as, indeed, a prodigy of genius even superior to himself. His overrating fondness had created a picture of imaginary perfection, upon which his fancy dwelt for years with doating satisfaction. Great was his gratification when the time and opportunity came of making his son secretary to Earl Fitzwilliam, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.

Burke had accompanied his son to the hustings at Malton; had introduced him to his constituents-to men devoted to himself-tenants and friends of his late patron Rockingham, and stanch supporters of the noble house of Wentworth, whose chief still followed where Burke would lead. The scene made Burke young again. It is related that this excursion into Yorkshire revived his spirits, damped by his brother's demise. He came back full of hope. He had at that time a town house in Duke Street, St. James's; there he and his son arrived from Malton on the 25th

July, 1794. The next day a party of intimate friends dined with him to celebrate the return to parliament and the promotion of Richard. The father found it difficult to suppress his exultation: his animation enlivened the board, but it was with a melancholy pleasure; for others saw what he in his doating blindness could They perceived the sallow hue and the emaciated form of the son-the hectic flush and the short cough-tokens but too visible of approaching dissolution.

not see.

In a few days Richard grew worse; yet none dared reveal to the unconscious parent the imminence and extent of the danger. Dr. Brocklesby, the family physician, declared from his long knowledge of the intensity of Edmund Burke's affection, that the agony of any lengthened suspense would probably be fatal to him; that brief as was the term of the son's existence, the torment of knowingly awaiting death must for the father be briefer still.

The district of Old Brompton, the fairest and healthiest rural suburb of the great metropolis, has ever been a customary resort, and in many instances a saving refuge, for those threatened with death from consumption. Here, at a villa called Cromwell House, lodgings were taken for Richard Burke. His father himself selected the residence, because he thought its nearness to town would the more readily enable the new secretary to depart for Ireland as soon as his health returned. Cromwell House, like many other localities nigh to it, acquired the name of "that great bad man"-as Burke termed him-the Protector, either from his having lodged or having had his head-quarters there or in the vicinity, at some eventful period of the Civil War. The tenement and its gardens must at one time have presented a pleasing countrified appearance. Latterly the place had been suffered to fall into decay, until its aspect became truly desolate and forlorn-a fit memorial of the statesman's perished hopes. The ruined abode has just been entirely removed, making way for new improvements. To this Cromwell House Burke's son was accordingly brought. The fatal symptoms pressed swiftly on, and death was

58 A

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evidently close at hand. A few days before it came, Dr. Brocklesby felt he must no longer delay disclosing the truth in its full terrors. From the moment he heard it, Edmund Burke abandoned himself to the desperation of despair: "Mine," he exclaimed, " is a grief which cannot be comforted."

Richard Burke expired on the 2d August, 1794, aged 36.

A celebrated letter, written at the time to Burke's niece, Mrs. Haviland, contains an exquisitely affecting description of the particulars of the fatal event. The letter was from the eminent civilian, and attached friend of Burke and his family, Dr. French