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 står. 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,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cold; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient;
In short, 't was his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold. and cut blocks with a razor."

A short time previous to his death, Burke expressed the hope that only a simple stone, with a brief inscrip

tion, should mark his burial-place; and accordingly the following memorial is found upon a tablet, at the church where he reposes:

"Near this place lies interred all that was mortal of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke, who died on the 9th of July, 1797, aged sixty-eight years."

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

THIS extraordinary man was born at Lichfield, în England, September 18, 1709. His father, Michael Johnson, was a bookseller, in humble circumstances, of strong and active mind, but deeply afflicted with constitutional melancholy. He was a man of some education and strict piety. His wife, Sarah Ford, was a woman of good natural sense, but extremely illiterate.

Johnson's wonderful memory appears to have displayed itself in early life. When he was a child in petticoats, and had but just learnt to read, his mother, one morning, put the common prayer-book into his hand, pointed to the collect for the day, and said, "Sam, you must get this by heart." She went up stairs, leaving him to study it; but by the time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. "What's the matter?" said she. "I can say it," he replied, and repeated it distinctly, though he could not have read it more than twice.

There is an anecdote of his precocity, which is quite amusing. It is said that when a child of three years old, he chanced to tread upon a duckling, the eleventh