ous honors, and unnecessary expense, never were mourners more
sincere--never did there arise to the blue vault of heaven the incense
of greater, and more deep-felt sorrow, than from the multitude who
assembled in and around the church, while the mortal remains of Edmund
Burke were placed in the same vault with his son and brother.

The tablet to his memory, placed on the wall of the south aisle of the
church, records his last resting-place with the relatives just named; as
well as the fact of the same grave containing the body of his "entirely
beloved and incomparable wife," who died in 1812, at the age of 76.

Deeply do we deplore that the dwelling where he enjoyed so much that
renders life happy, and suffered what sanctifies and prepares us for a
better world, exists no longer; but his name is incorporated with our
history, and adds another to the list of the great men who have been
called into life and received their first and best impressions in
Ireland; and if Ireland had given nothing to her more prosperous sister
than the extraordinary men of the past and present century, she merits
her gratitude for the gifts which bestow so much honor and glory on the
United Kingdoms.

Mrs. Burke, previous to her death, sold the mansion to her neighbor, Mr.
John Du Pre, of Wilton Park. Mrs. Haviland, Mr. Burke's niece, lived
with her to the last, though she did not receive the portion of her
fortune to which she was considered entitled. Her son, Thomas Haviland
Burke, grand-nephew of Edmund, became the lineal representative of the
family; but the library, and all the tokens of respect and admiration
which he received from the good, and from the whole world, went with the
property to _Mrs. Burke's_ nephew, Mr. Nugent. Some of the sculpture
which ornamented the house now graces the British Museum.

The mansion was burnt on the 23d of April, 1813. The ground where it
stood is unequal; and some of the park wall remains, and fine old trees
still flourish, beneath whose shade we picture the meeting between the
mourning father and the favorite horse of his lost son.

There is a full-length portrait of Edmund Burke in the Examination Hall
of the Dublin University. All such portraits should be copied, and
preserved in our own Houses of Parliament, a meet honor to the dead, and
a stimulant to the living to "go and do likewise." It hardly realizes,
however, the _ideal_ of Burke; perhaps no portrait could. What Miss
Edgeworth called th