The irresistible dominion of oratory was perhaps never more triumphantly displayed. Had the question been speedily taken, Hastings could not have escaped; but the final proceedings were not had until eight years after, when he was acquitted—not from proof of innocence of the charges against him-but from a feeling that the careful, just, and exemplary conduct, required of a public officer at home, was not to be exacted of a governor of British India! Scarcely had Burke's labors in this field been closed, when another great subject arrested his attention. The French Revolution had commenced. It rose to the vision like a cloud, in which there was tempest, thunder, lightning, and earthquake! All saw the convulsion; yet few could tell its meaning-its causes, its character, its end. Burke looked on the fearful phenomenon, and was one of the very few that could estimate it. He saw that it was a spirit of destruction, wrestling against the established institutions of human society. He was himself a conservative; he believed "that in many counsellors there is safety;" that the sanctions of ages are the admonitions of wisdom; and therefore what he found to be approved by time, he would not condemn, till experience itself cried out against it, and pointed the way to improvement. These, as we have before shown, were the settled convictions of his mind, and therefore he looked upon the French Revolution with fear and trembling. As if inspired with the gift of prophecy, he had forseen its coming; and when it came, he foretold its horrors. In 1790, he published his "Observations on the Revolution in France," embracing these views. No political work has ever produced so great a sensation as this; thirty thousand copies were sold before the first demand was satisfied. The whole proceedings in the cause of Warren Hastings, as we have stated, were not closed for some years. In June, 1794, the thanks of the House of Commons were voted to the managers of the prosecution. Burke was present on this occasion, and it was his last appearance in the great theatre of his efforts, his eloquence and his fame. His son, Richard, succeeded him in the representation of Wendover, but died soon after, August, 1794, aged thirty-six. This severe blow sunk deep into the heart of the parent, and he never again recovered his elasticity of heart. In 1795, he received rich pensions from government, at the express desire of the king. In 1796, he wrote his celebrated "Letter to a noble Earl"which has been as extensively read and admired as any of his productions. Burke now generally resided at his house in Beaconsfield, Berkshire, about twenty-three miles from London. Here he spent his time in study, in sustaining an extensive correspondence, and in agricultural pursuits. In the latter he had found great satisfaction, and possessed much practical knowledge. His health sunk by degrees, and he visited Bath in the hopes of recovery. But a fearful change had come over his appearance. He returned to Beaconsfield, seeming to foresee his end. He said in one of his letters, he was going there to die. The very day seemed to be known to him. For several hours before his death, he busied himself in sending messages of affectionate remembrance to various friends,-expressing his forgiveness of all injuries, and desiring the same in return. How beautiful is this great example! He now reviewed the motives which had guided his life; expressed his anxiety for his country; and, having finished his earthly affairs, he requested one of his attendants to read to him Addison's paper in the Spectator on the immortality of the soul. In a few minutes after, he died, July 9th, 1797. He was buried in Beaconsfield church-yard. His wife died in 1802. In private life, Burke was exceedingly amiable; his charities were numerous, and many of his acts display the most kind and generous feelings. His treatment of Crabbe, the poet, is a brilliant chapter in his life. This excellent poet, having borrowed five pounds of a friend, had come to London as a literary adventurer. His stock of money being expended, he was reduced to a state of great distress. He applied for help to Lord North, Lord Shelburne and Lord Thurlow; but in vain. At last, having been threatened with arrest, he applied to Burke, in a letter written with great simplicity, dignity and pathos. "The night after I delivered my letter at his door," said he to Mr. Lockhart some years after, "I was in such a state of agitation, that I walked Westminster bridge, backward and forward, till daylight.” With true Irish heartiness Burke received the poet, looked over his compositions, and induced Dodsley to publish them. He also assisted him with money, gave him a room at Beaconsfield, introduced him to Fox, Reynolds and others, and effectually aided him in obtaining advancement in the church. How few great men, and especially those who have been addicted to politics, have exhibited either the humanity or sagacity displayed by Burke in this instance. In his marriage, Burke was fortunate. He used to say that "every care vanished the moment he entered his own house." In his domestic relations he was exemplary, and rarely has a man been so much and so deeply beloved by his friends. His conversation was delightful. Perhaps no man ever possessed in an equal degree the power of throwing a flood of light over every subject that was started in familiar discourse. His imagination was rich and glowing; his heart full; his mind stored to abundance; his words choice and flowing. In the club, where Goldsmith, Johnson, and Reynolds were members, Burke was always a leading star. Even the captious old lexicographer seems to have regarded Burke's conversation as surpassing in beauty, richness and grace, that of all others. The superiority of this great man is, however, chiefly conspicuous in his works. His oratory was defective, and his manner, though forcible, inelegant. He was, also, too much addicted to refining and amplifying; to the introduction of collateral associations and trains of thought, to be immediately effective, in the degree which the real force, wisdom and philosophy of his speeches might otherwise have caused. It is chiefly for the inexhaustible storehouse of deep thought, rich illustration, and profound wisdom touching the great science of government, embodied and preserved in his works, that the debt of gratitude is due to the memory of Edmund Burke. It is impossible that any one who leads an active life, and produces effects, however good and great they may be, should pass through life without real or imputed wrong. Burke has been accused of venality; of shaping his course for office, pension and pay; of deserting his party, and turning his back upon his principles. We need not now enter into a discussion of these points; for as the mists have subsided that arose from the arena in which he was an actor, the character of Burke has been cleared of these imputations. We may now regard him as a great intellect, allied to a great soul. How noble-how rare a union! We should hardly do justice to the reader did we not place before him the lines of Goldsmith, which, although written in a sportive mood, contain a masterly delineation of Burke's character, beneath a satirical mask. "Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, A short time previous to his death, Burke expressed the hope that only a simple stone, with a brief inscrip |