possessed much wit and humour, and was intimate with Goldsmith, who has thus embalmed him in his verse: Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at; That we wished him full ten times a-day at Old Nick; As often we wished to have Dick back again! BURKE'S LAST APPEARANCE IN PARLIAMENT. On the 20th of June, 1794, Mr. Pitt moved the thanks of the House to the managers of Hastings' Trial, "for the faithful management in their discharge of the trust reposed in them;" which was carried. Mr. Burke, in reply, observed that prejudices against himself, arising from personal friendship or personal obligations to the accused, were too laudable for him to be discomposed at. He had thrown no general reflections on the Company's servants; he had merely repeated what Mr. Hastings himself had said of the troops serving in Oude; and the House had marked their opinions of the officers in the very terms he had used. The other expressions attributed to him, he added, had been much exaggerated and misrepresented. This was the last day he appeared in the House of Commons, having immediately afterwards accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. Among the opinions on his conduct in the Hastings affair, those of Mr. Nicholls, in his Reflections of the Reign of George III., are striking: "I had lived (says Mr. Nicholls) in habits of acquaintance with Mr. Edmund Burke I had no prejudices against him; for he had not at that time involved my country in the crusade against French principles. Before he brought forward the charges against Mr. Hastings, he conversed with me very fully on the subject. I put this question to him: 'Can you prove that Mr. Hastings ever derived any advantage to himself from that misconduct which you impute to him?' He acknowledged that he could not;' but added, that 'his whole government of India had been one continued violation of the great principle of justice.' Before the charges were laid on the table, I had a second conversation with Mr. Burke on the subject. When he found that I persevered in my opinion, he told me, 'that in that case I must relinquish the friendship of the Duke of Portland.' I replied, that would give me pain, but that I would rather relinquish the Duke of Portland's friendship than support an impeachment which I did not approve." DEATH OF BURKE'S SON. This calamity, which followed a few months the death of Burke's brother, fell grievously upon the father. His only child, Richard Burke, died on the 2nd of August, 1794, at the early age of 36. His health had been for some time unsettled; but his fond father was led into the deceptive hope of placing him, when he had retired from Parliament, in a position to take an active part in public affairs, for which he was, by his talents, well qualified. Immediately after he had vacated his seat, they both proceeded to Malton, and the son was returned in his place. He thus wrote to his cousin, now become Mrs. Haviland: "I cannot let this post, which is the first after my election, go out without assuring you of my most affectionate remembrance, and giving you the satisfaction of receiving one of my first franks, as I am sure there is no person who takes a more sincere interest in any good event that can befal me." The fond anticipations of the son were, however, soon to be frustrated along with the sanguine hopes of the father. The latter obtained for him the appointment of secretary to Earl Fitzwilliam, the new viceroy of Ireland. Meanwhile, on his return to town with his father, amidst the congratulations of friends upon their good fortune, the more experienced, with fearful emotion, perceived the hectic flush of the son. The physicians judged the disease to be incipient decline; but Dr. Brocklesby, who well knew the strong paternal affection and sensitive temperament of Mr. Burke, was of opinion that to break to him the danger would probably prove fatal to him sooner than to the patient. Change of air, even for the short time previous to his proceeding to Ireland, was then recommended; and, to be near town, Cromwell House, in the genial suburb of Brompton, was taken. Here he became rapidly worse; his condition could no longer be concealed from his father, who, from the moment of the communication of the danger, just a week before the fatal termination, scarcely tasted food, did not sleep, but gave way to unceasing lamentations. Dr. Laurence draws a sad picture of this scene of suffering: "The family are with poor Richard in country lodgings a little beyond Brompton. It is a house of mourning indeed, a scene of affliction. Dr. Brocklesby says, almost too much for him, who, as a physician, is inured to these sights, and in some degree callous to them. says, sustains herself nobly, to keep up the fortitude of her husband. Mr. Burke writes to me that he seeks tranquillity in prayer; he is himself (as he tells me) almost dried up; there is, however, in his last letter, plainly a gleam of hope, and a tone of comparative calmness of spirit. The conclusion of his first letter was highly affecting. He ended with an abrupt exclamation, "Oh! my brother died in time." Mrs. Burke, he But this hope was delusive; the patient sunk on the 2nd of August. His last moments are thus pathetically described by Dr. Laurence: "During the night previous, Richard Burke was restless and discomposed. In the morning his lips were observed to have become black. His voice, however, was better; and some little sustenance which he took remained quietly on his stomach. But his father and mother, having relinquished even the shadow of hope, thought nothing of these deceptively favourable symptoms. Their lamentations reached him where he lay. He instantly arose from his bed, and to make his U emaciated appearance less shocking to his parents, changed his linen and washed himself. He then desired Mr. and Mrs. Webster, the old and faithful family servants, whose tender care of him was unremitting, to support him towards the door of the room where his father and mother were sitting in tears. As soon as he arrived at the door, he exerted himself to spring forward alone; and treading studiously firmly, for the purpose of showing how little his strength was diminished, he crossed the room to the window. He endeavoured to enter into conversation with his father; but grief keeping the latter silent, he said, Why, Sir, do you not chide me for these unmanly feelings? I am under no terror; I feel myself better, and in spirits; yet my heart flutters, I know not why. Pray talk to me, Sir; talk of religion, talk of morality, talk, if you will, on indifferent subjects.' Then turning round, he asked, 'What noise is that? Does it rain ? Oh, no; it is the rustling of the wind through the trees;' and immediately, with clear voice, with correct and impressive delivery, and with more than common ease and grace of action, he repeated these three lines from Adam's morning hymn in Milton-a favourite passage of his father's, and his uncle just deceased: His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, "He began again, and again pronounced the verses; waved his head in sign of worship, and worshipping, sunk into the arms of his parents as in a profound and sweet sleep, and expired. His mother closed his eyes." Dr. Laurence states that during the first day the father was truly terrible in his grief. He occasionally worked himself up into an agony of affliction, and then bursting away from all control, would rush to the room where his son lay, and throw himself headlong, as it happened, on the body, the bed, or the floor. Yet at intervals he attended and gave directions relative to every little arrangement, which the situation rendered necessary, pleasing himself most with thinking what would be most consonant to the living wishes and affections of his lost son. Next he would argue against the ineffectual sorrow of his loving wife. She, on the other hand, sometimes broke into fits of violent weeping, sometimes showed a more quiet but a more determined grief, and at other times again, a more serene composure than her husband. Instead of dashing herself down like him, she only lamented, that when on Thursday, by an accidental fall, she sprained her wrist, "it had not been her neck;" but, when her husband attempted to persuade her that she had no business still to remain in the house, she answered steadily, "No, Edmund, while he remains here I will not go." On Saturday evening, however, she promised that neither of them would ever enter more the chamber where their son lay. This promise they kept; and shortly after left Cromwell House.* Burke had lost in his dear son a companion and confidant, and a rare example of filial duty and affection. Their mutual confidence was more unreserved than commonly prevails between father and son. "The father," Mr. Prior tells us, "had enlarged the house at Beaconsfield for his particular pursuits and accommodation; he consulted him for some years before his death on almost every subject, whether of a public or private nature, that occurred; and very often followed his judgment in preference to his own, where they happened to differ. The deceased possessed much knowledge, firmness, and decision of character, united with strict integrity of mind. The loss of such a treasure; the unexpected and irremediable destruction of hopes entertained of his advancement and fame, and, as an only child, the consequent extinction of the hopes of descendants to continue his name, was naturally felt by Burke with excessive poignancy. It shook his frame so fearfully, that though the intellectual energies continued unimpaired, his bodily powers rapidly declined." Richard Burke was buried in Beaconsfield church. His father could not afterwards bear to see the place of his interment, and when going from Gregories to town, instead of * Taken down in 1853: it was situated upon lands believed to have been bequeathed to the parish of Kensington by Oliver Cromwell. |