t posterity."

In the last of a series of articles by Mrs. S. C. Hall, entitled
"Pilgrimages to English Shrines," and published in the London _Art
Journal_, we have an account of a visit to the residences and to the
grave of Burke, which we reproduce in the following pages, with its
interesting illustrations.

THE GRAVE OF EDMUND BURKE.

It has been said that we are inclined to over-value great men when their
graves have been long green, or their monuments gray above them, but we
believe it is only then we estimate them as they deserve. Prejudice and
falsehood have no enduring vitality, and posterity is generally anxious
to render justice to the mighty dead; we dwell upon their actions,--we
quote their sentiments and opinions,--we class them amongst our
household gods--and keep their memories green within the sanctuary of
our HOMES; we read to our children and friends the written treasures
bequeathed to us by the genius and independence of the great statesmen
and orators--the men of literature and science--who "_have been_." We
adorn our minds with the poetry of the past, and value it, as well we
may, as far superior to that of the present: we sometimes, by the aid of
imagination--one of the highest of God's gifts--bring great men before
us: we hear the deep-toned voices and see the flashing eyes of some,
who, it may be, taught kings their duty, or quelled the tumults of a
factious people: we listen to the lay of the minstrel, or the orator's
addresses to the assembly, and our pulses throb and our eyes moisten as
the eloquence flows--first, as a gentle river, until gaining strength in
its progress, it sweeps onwards like a torrent, overcoming all that
sought to impede its progress. What a happy power this is!--what a
glorious triumph over time!--recalling or creating at will!--peopling
our small chamber with the demigods of history; viewing them enshrined
in their perfections, untainted by the world; hearing their exalted
sentiments; knowing them as we know a noble statue or a beautiful
picture, without the taint of age or feebleness, or the mildew of decay.

If these sweet wakening dreams were more frequent, we should be happier;
yes, and better than we are; we should be shamed out of much
baseness--for nothing so purifies and exalts the soul as the actual or
imaginary companionship of the pure and exalted; no man who purposed to
create a noble picture would choose an imperfect model; no one who seeks
virtue and