practice, his mother a Miss Nagle, of County Cork, a Roman Catholic,
whose family had been zealous adherents of James the Second. Edmund and
his brothers were brought up as Protestants, their father’s faith; his
only sister was educated according to her mother’s religion. Young Burke
went to school at Ballitore, about thirty miles from Dublin, under the
tutelage of one Shackleton, a Quaker, and native of Yorkshire, a good
man, and a good teacher, who endeared himself to his pupils, and of whom
Burke spoke in the highest terms of gratitude and affection, ‘who had,’
he said, ‘not only educated his mind, but also his heart.’ While still a
schoolboy, Edmund had formed a close friendship with young Shackleton,
his master’s son, and continued to correspond with him for many years on
all subjects, classical, social, religious. In 1743 he went to Trinity
College, Dublin, where, he confesses, his studies were very desultory.
‘They proceeded more from sallies of passion than preference for sound
reason, and, like all natural appetites that are violent for a season,
soon cooled.’ He thought it a humorous consideration to reflect into how
many madnesses he had fallen during the last two years. First, the
_furor Mathematicus_, then the _furor Classicus_, the _furor
Historicus_, the _furor Poeticus_; later on he would have added to his
list the _furor Politicus_.
Richard Shackleton, from whom he had parted with tears at Ballitore,
urges him, with tender admonitions, ‘to live according to the rules of
the Gospel.’ ‘I am desirous of doing so,’ was the answer to the friendly
little sermon, ‘but it is far easier to do so in the country than in a
town, especially in Trinity College, Dublin.’ Burke sends Richard a
poetical description of the manner in which he spends his day: how he
rises with the dawn and careers through fragrant gardens and meads, ‘mid
the promise of May, till hunger drives him home to breakfast; how he
goes down to the beach in the afternoon to sit upon the sea-wall and
watch the shipping, and the varying colours of the ocean in the glowing
sunset; and amid it all, how his thoughts travel back to the sparkling
river and pretty fir-woods of dear old Ballitore. He finds time,
however, almost every day, to spend at least three hours in the public
library, among the books, ‘the best way in the world for killing
thought.’ Assuredly far better than most methods used for that purpose.
‘I have read some history,’ he says, ‘and am endeavouring to make myself
acquainted in some degree with that of our own poor country.’
During his whole life Burke loved and compassionated and endeavoured to
serve his own unhappy island. His only contemporary of note at College
was the Sizar, Oliver Goldsmith, but they do not appear to have been
acquainted. In 1750, having taken his degree, Edmund went to London to
study the law in the Middle Temple; but that species of study did not
suit his taste, although he expresses his high respect for the same. He
was never called to the Bar; he preferred literature, courted the
society of authors, frequented the debating club in Covent Garden, and
was a great lover of the theatres.
His father, who was a hard man, and had never shown him much tenderness,
was very angry at Edmund’s neglect of legal studies, and either
withdrew, or curtailed, his son’s allowance so much as to make it
difficult for him to subsist in London. He was very fond of the country,
however, and used to go on walking expeditions, and spend a great part
of his summer in picturesque villages, reading and writing all the time,
in the companionship of William Burke, his friend and namesake. He
mentions his love for wandering in a letter to Richard Shackleton, when,
after apologising for a long silence, he says, ‘I may have broken all
rules, neglected all decorums, but I have never forgot a friend whose
good head and heart have made me esteem and love him.’ It was about the
year 1756 that Edmund Burke’s marriage took place, with the daughter of
Dr. Nugent, an Irish Roman Catholic, who had settled at Bath. We hear
that she was a gentle, amiable, and well-bred woman, and a Presbyterian
by creed. In this year Burke published _A Vindication of Natural
Society_, and his immortal essay on the Sublime and the Beautiful. The
_Vindication_ was written in the form of a letter to a noble Lord by a
late noble writer. It was intended to simulate the style of Lord
Bolingbroke, and was pronounced in that respect eminently successful, so
far as to deceive many expert critics. It was a satire on the opinions
of Lord Bolingbroke, lately deceased, whose posthumous works were now
attracting great attention in the literary world. Boswell is said to
have asked Johnson in after years whether he thought the _Vindication_
would be damaging to Burke in his political career. ‘No, sir,’ replied
the Doctor; ‘though it might perhaps be mentioned at an election.’
Burke himself appears to have had the same misgivings as Boswell, for,
on the eve of standing for Parliament, he thought it advisable to print
a second edition of the _Vindication_, with a preface, in which he
explained that the design of the work was ironical. When in London he
was not slow in forming friendships with all the eminent men of the day,
and amongst those with whom he became most intimate were Reynolds,
Garrick, and Samuel Johnson. He was one of the original members (as was
his father-in-law, Dr. Nugent) of the Literary Club; and so popular was
he at the Turk’s Head, that Sir John Hawkins, ‘that most unclubbable
man,’ was actually expelled from the chosen circle on account of an
attack he had made on Burke.
In 1758 he conceived the scheme of the _Annual Register_, and proposed
it to Dodsley, the great publisher of the day, who was so much pleased
with the notion that he immediately embarked in the undertaking, and
gave Burke £100 a year to contribute the ‘Survey of Events,’ which he
continued for many years. About the same time, the young author was
introduced to the man who is known to posterity as ‘Single-speech
Hamilton,’ on account of the brilliant success of his maiden speech,
which threw into the shade such orators as Pitt (afterwards Lord
Chatham), Grenville, and Fox, who all spoke on the same occasion. Horace
Walpole met Burke at Hamilton’s house in company with Garrick, and says
of him, ‘A young Irishman who wrote a book in the style of Bolingbroke,
which has been much admired. He is a sensible man, but has not worn off
his authorism, and thinks there is nothing so charming in the world as
writers, and to be one. He will know better some day.’
Mr. Hamilton went to Ireland, as private secretary to the Viceroy, Lord
Halifax, and Burke accompanied him. While there he busied himself in
inquiring into the grievances and causes of discontent, especially among
the Roman Catholic portion of the community. It was owing to his
liberal-minded views on the subject of Catholic Emancipation that a
false rumour was spread that Edmund Burke had gone over to his mother’s
creed, with many other reports equally untrue. Hamilton obtained for his
companion a pension of £300 a year from the Irish Treasury, which was at
first received with gratitude, but Burke would not accept the salary
unconditionally; he must have some of his time to himself for literary
labours; in fact, he could not barter his freedom. Hamilton was
offended. He wished to bind down the noble spirit for life to his own
personal service, or, as the writer himself expresses it, ‘to
circumscribe my hopes, to give up even the possibility of liberty, to
annihilate myself for ever.’ So the pension was given up, the connection
with Hamilton at an end, and Burke returned to England.
In 1765 Lord Rockingham replaced George Grenville as Prime Minister, and
appointed Edmund Burke his private secretary. This nomination caused
much surprise and displeasure in some quarters. The Duke of Newcastle
expostulated with the Premier, and denounced Burke as an Irish
adventurer, a Papist, a disguised Jesuit, with a false name, and what
not. Lord Rockingham put his secretary in possession of the charges
brought against him, all of which Burke denied, and answered indignantly
he would instantly vacate the post, as no possible consideration would
induce him to continue in relation with any man whose trust in him was
not entire. But Lord Rockingham had implicit trust in his noble-hearted
secretary, and would not accept his resignation; and for seventeen
years, that is, till Rockingham’s death, the friendship between these
two distinguished men was unbroken, the confidence unlimited. In
December, this same year, Burke was returned Member for the borough of
Wendover. His maiden speech, a few days after the opening of the session
in 1766, on American affairs, produced the profoundest sensation, and
Pitt (the elder) not only complimented the young Member himself, but
congratulated the Ministry on their acquisition. Dr. Johnson said, ‘No
man had ever gained more reputation on his first appearance.’ The second
and third speeches were even more successful, and it was universally
admitted that Burke’s eloquence carried the repeal of the American Stamp
Act, which measure was supported by Pitt, although in Opposition. The
Rockingham Ministry did not stand above twelve months, and made way for
what was termed the Grafton Administration, the Duke being, for a time
at least, nominal, and Lord Chatham real leader of the party. Burke
describes this Government as a piece of joinery, curiously indented and
whimsically dove-tailed; a piece of tesselated pavement, without cement,
unsafe to touch, insecure to stand on.
In 1769 he became the possessor of The Gregories, in the parishes of
Penn and Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire. He thus speaks of it to
Shackleton: ‘I have made a push with all I could collect, and the aid of
my friends, to cast a little root in this country. I have bought a
house, with an estate of about 600 acres, twenty-four miles from London:
it is very pleasant, and I propose, God willing, to become a farmer in
good earnest.’ He is sure his friend will approve of the acquisition,
when he knows it was once the property of Waller the poet. There is
always a large portion of the community who consider it incumbent on
them to inquire into, and animadvert upon, their neighbours’ affairs,
more especially their finances. The world was much exercised over the
chances of Burke’s ability to defray such an expense as the purchase of
an estate; but there seems little doubt that Lord Rockingham assisted
him materially, and at his death that kind friend desired that all
Edmund Burke’s bonds should be destroyed.
The Irishman did not belie his nationality with regard to money; it must
be confessed he was lavish, and it is said that from the day, in 1769,
when he applied to Garrick for the loan of £1000, till 1794, when he
received a pension from the Crown, he was never out of debt. But Burke’s
extravagance was far removed from selfishness; he never closed his ear
or his purse against the appeals of struggling talent or deserving
poverty, and was generous and compassionate in every relation of life.
In 1773, his only child, his ‘darling Dick,’ having left Westminster,
was entered student at Christchurch, Oxford, but he being considered too
young for College life, his father determined to send him to Auxerre to
study the French language. The youth was lodged in the house of the
Bishop of the diocese, a good prelate, who treated him with the utmost
kindness, which Richard’s father amply repaid, when, in after years, the
Bishop visited England as an exile and a pauper. Edmund Burke went to
Paris at the same time, not merely for the pleasure of making
acquaintance with the agreeable and distinguished members of society,
but for the purpose of investigating the causes of the revolutionary
movement, which was beginning by degrees to convulse the French nation.
He was presented to the Duchesse de Luxembourg, and to Madame du
Deffand, who laments that ‘the Englishman speaks French so badly, in
spite of which everybody likes him, and thinks he would be most
agreeable, if he could make himself understood’! What a strange position
for Edmund Burke; he was able, however, to follow French perfectly as a
listener, and was much delighted with hearing La Harpe’s tragedy of _Les
Barmecides_ read at the Duchess’s house. He became acquainted with the
Count de Broglie, one of the King’s confidential Ministers, and
Caraccioli, the Neapolitan Envoy, and many members of the _haute
noblesse_. Bent on weighing the balance of political opinion in Paris,
Burke did not confine his visits to the _salons_ of one faction or
another; he was a frequent guest at the house of Mademoiselle
d’Espinasse, the well-known writer of love-letters so ardent, that it
was feared they would consume the paper on which they were written! And
here he saw the man who inspired those tender epistles,—one Guibert, a
colonel in the Corsican Legion, who had lately written a book, which had
made a great noise in Paris, all the more that it had been suppressed by
the Government. Burke studied the men and their works, and drew his own
conclusions; he also, in common with all foreigners, went to Versailles,
and saw the old King, Louis Quinze, at Mass, in a pew, just above Madame
du Barry, and the Dauphin and his young bride dine in public with great
pomp: Marie Antoinette, who, ‘glittering like the morning star, full of
life, and joy, and splendour,’—that vision of beauty, indelibly stamped
on his memory, which suggested many ‘words that burn,’ and inspired many
an enthusiastic and eloquent appeal in behalf of the unfortunate French
Sovereigns. Madame du Deffand flattered herself that Burke had gone home
enamoured with the nation at large, but she was mistaken; he was never
blinded, as were so many of his countrymen, especially his own party, by
theoretical benefits of the French Revolution, but foresaw, in all their
terrible distinctness, the horrors and excesses of the impending Reign
of Terror. On his return to London, he renewed his acquaintance with all
the eminent men of the day. His friendship with Johnson and Reynolds
lasted till the death of both those loved companions; and Johnson, whose
opinions, especially on politics, were usually opposed to those of
Burke, used to say he did not grudge Edmund being the first man in the
House of Commons, for was not Edmund the first man everywhere? ‘Indeed,
he is a man, sir, that if you met him, for the first time, in the
street, when, overtaken by a drove of oxen, you both stepped aside for
five minutes’ shelter, from whom you could not part without saying,
“What an extraordinary man!”’
So extraordinary was Burke’s fame for eloquence, ability, and the
liberality of his views, that the important city of Bristol chose him
for their Member unsolicited. During the time he represented them, the
Bristolians, for the most part, were very proud of their brilliant M.P.,
but his popularity began to wane when he opposed war, and advocated, not
only Irish free-trade, but the Catholic Relief Bill. It would appear
that constituents, for the most part, aspire to a despotic rule over the
speeches and votes of their representatives, in proportion to the
democracy of their own opinions. Now Edmund Burke was in reality what
most politicians are in name only, independent, and some words of his
that bear on this subject deserve to be engraved in golden letters: ‘He
who sits in Parliament should speak the language of truth and sincerity,
should never be ready to take up or lay down any great political
question for the convenience of the hour; his duty is to support the
public good, not to form his opinions in order to get into, or remain
in, Parliament.’ He therefore sacrificed his seat at Bristol to his love
of independence; for although his constituents, after attacking and
maligning him, offered to re-elect him, Burke went down in person to
_decline the honour_, in a speech, the eloquence of which could only be
equalled by its dignity. He was then elected for Malton, the borough for
which Lord Rockingham had originally destined him, and for which he sat
until the close of his Parliamentary career. The Gordon Riots broke out
this year, and Burke’s house was one of the first doomed to destruction,
for ‘was he not the patron and promoter of Popery?’ The authorities
provided him with a garrison of sixteen soldiers, thus saving his
dwelling in Charles Street, St. James’s, from sharing the fate of Sir
George Savile’s (who had brought in the Catholic Relief Bill),—his house
being gutted, and the whole of the furniture converted into a bonfire.
Savile was a neighbour of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
In 1782 Lord Rockingham once more resumed the head of affairs, on the
resignation of Lord North, and Edmund Burke was appointed Paymaster of
the Forces. This had hitherto been a place of great emolument, but Burke
was not one to advocate reform in every department but his own—he who
had so lately urged economical reform in high places. He considered the
office overpaid, and cut it down, salary and profits, to the tune of
some thousands. His ‘dear Dick’ was made his father’s deputy, with a
stipend of £500 a year, and was shortly afterwards promoted to a better
post under Government. The death of Lord Rockingham broke up the party.
Burke resigned when Lord Shelburne came in, but resumed office under the
Coalition Ministry—Duke of Portland, Premier. In 1784, ‘the pilot that
weathered the storm,’ William Pitt, took the helm, and Burke retired
from official life for good; but he never slackened in his Parliamentary
labours, taking a lead in all the important business of the day, and,
above all, displaying the liveliest interest in Indian affairs. His name
is indissolubly connected with that of Warren Hastings, of whose
impeachment he was the principal mover; and during the weary
prolongation of the trial, he never rested from his attack on the
Governor-General, either by speech or writing. Suffice it to say, that,
on the opening of the trial, Edmund Burke made a speech which lasted
four days, and, at the conclusion of the proceedings, one which occupied
nine days, and was indeed a wonder, though it did not influence the
sentence, as Warren Hastings was acquitted.
In the meantime all Burke’s preconceived notions of displeasure at the
progress of the Revolution in France were more and more increased and
confirmed by the rapid strides which were being made towards the anarchy
he had foretold. One memorable day he rose in the House to speak on the
subject which absorbed and agitated his mind. He was worked up to a
pitch of excitement; he commented, with vehemence, on the encouragement
which Fox’s eulogiums had afforded the French Revolution, and went on to
say that, in speaking his mind, he was well aware he should this day
provoke enemies, and incur the loss of friends.
‘No! no!’ cried Fox, ‘there will be no loss of friends.’
Burke knew better; he knew what was in store for him. ‘But if my firm
and steady adherence to the British Constitution place me in such a
dilemma, I am ready to incur the risk, and my last words shall be, “Fly
from the French Constitution!” I have done my duty at the price of my
friend; our friendship is at an end.’
He was right in his prognostications; not only was there a breach
between him and Fox, who had been one of his most intimate friends, and
whom he henceforth met as a stranger, but the whole party kept aloof
from Burke. They accused him of having deserted his principles, and the
Whig newspapers were most violent in their abuse. He was annoyed and
grieved by these charges, but they did not influence his opinions or his
conduct. He sent his son to Coblenz, to communicate with the Royalist
exiles, but the mission was productive of no good. He published his
celebrated _Reflections on the French Revolution_, which converted some
readers to his way of thinking, and exasperated others; and he continued
to write pamphlet upon pamphlet on the same subject, waxing warmer and
warmer as he wrote, and urging interference on the English Government.
Miss Burney, who met him about this time, writes that ‘he is not well,
and much tormented by the state of political affairs. I wish you could
see this remarkable man when he is easy, happy, and with those whom he
cordially likes; but politics, even on his own side, must be carefully
excluded: on that theme his irritability is so terrible that it gives
immediately to his face the expression of a man who is defending himself
against murderers.’ The news of the French King’s execution produced a
profound sensation in England, and turned the current of feeling, for
the most part, in the direction to which Burke had so long, and vainly,
endeavoured to direct it.
We must not omit to record a strange episode in his Parliamentary life
that occurred on the bringing in of the Alien Bill, which imposed
certain pains and restrictions on foreigners coming to this country. Fox
had already spoken, when Edmund Burke rose to address the House, and it
was easy to perceive he was, if possible, more excited than usual. He
thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew forth a dagger with a tragic
gesture which would have done honour to his friend David Garrick; and
flinging the shining weapon on the floor of the House, called on all
present to keep all French principles from their heads, all French
daggers from their hearts;... to beware of the intrigues of murderous
atheists, and so forth; and he concluded by adjuring his audience to
listen to his warning, by all the blessings of time and the hopes of
eternity! This extraordinary proceeding, which is remembered in history
as ‘the dagger scene,’ produced, as may be imagined, different effects
on different hearers; there were some on whom it made a deep impression,
while there were others who accused the speaker of having imagined and
rehearsed a bit of melodrame. Rehearsal there was none. The facts were
these: Burke, on his way to the House of Commons, had been shown the
dagger in question, which had been sent over from France as a pattern
for a large order to be executed in this country.
He had announced his intention of retiring from public life as soon as
the trial of Warren Hastings should be brought to a conclusion; and when
at length it was so, he applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and his son
Richard was elected for his vacant seat.
Pitt proposed to confer a peerage on the man, for whom he had, in spite
of many opposite ways of thinking, a profound admiration, by the title
of Lord Beaconsfield; but a storm was fast gathering, which darkened the
remnant of Burke’s life, and hastened his end.
His only child, his idolised Richard, was attacked with sudden illness,
to which he succumbed. This young man’s handsome face, familiar to us
from the portraits by his father’s friend Reynolds, bore a sullen and
somewhat defiant expression, which inclines us to believe the general
verdict, that he was a man of ungovernable disposition. Two years before
his death he had been sent to Ireland on business by the Catholic
Committee, and while there, as also on his return to London, he had
proved himself totally unfit for the trust reposed in him. The character
given of Richard Burke by one who knew him well was as follows: ‘He is
by far the most impudent and opinionative fellow I have ever met.’ Yet
in his parents’ fond eyes he was faultless, and few things are more
pathetic than the father’s allusion to his heavy loss. ‘The storm has
gone over me,’ he says; ‘I lie like one of those old oaks that the late
hurricane has scattered round me; I am torn up by the roots; I am alone,
I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. I live in an inverted order:
those who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of my
ancestors.’
Both the King and Pitt (the Premier) were anxious to provide for the
great statesman’s declining days, and a considerable grant was assigned
him by the Crown. Acceptable as the relief from financial anxiety must
have been to the man, now advancing in years and bowed down by sorrow,
Burke was much disturbed that the question of the pension had not been
brought before Parliament. The sequel proved that his scruples were well
founded, for the Duke of Bedford and Lord Lauderdale made this stipend a
plea for attacking the Government, to which they were in opposition. But
Edmund Burke, says one of his latest biographers, ‘was not slow to
reply, and, in his letter to a noble Lord, made one of the most splendid
repartees in the English language.’