of being new to the reader. That the death of Carolan has caused a chasm in the annals of Irish song, is a fact which has been sensibly felt and deplored by his brother bards in many a heart-moving lay. When we consider the difficulties which this ingenious man had to encounter, his loss of sight, the consequent want of adequate education, and, above all, the retrograde state of society in Ireland, during the greater part of the time which he lived, he will be found entitled to no small portion of praise and admiration. As a musical genius, he is universally acknowledged to rank with the foremost of modern times. His character has been often drawn. As a poet and musician, it is well delineated in Walker's "Memoirs of Irish Bards," by that author's anonymous correspondent. But there are, in that communication, some errors, particularly respecting his moral character, which require observation. He is described as a reckless reveller, whose genius required the constant stimulus of inebriating liquors to rouse it to exertion. Now I have been assured by old people, who knew some of Carolan's contemporaries, that nothing could be more unjust or untrue than such a representation. On this head, the solemnly recorded evidence of Charles O'Conor, may be considered decisive. Bu riázháltá Kgus ba cráixech, "He was moral and religious," says that venerable and virtuous man, who was long and well acquainted with him, and whose testimony is surely preferable to any anonymous information. It is not, however, pretended that he was a mere water drinker. On the contrary, he always delighted in cheerful society, and never refused the circling glass. Perhaps few individuals ever heightened "the feast of reason," or enriched it with "the flow of soul," in a greater degree, than Carolan.

To him Ireland is indebted for upholding its ancient

character for music and poetry, and the debt yet remains to be paid. In every part of the world his strains are heard and admired; and our countrymen, in foreign climes, feel justly proud of their national bard. But how has he been requited at home? His humble grave may indeed be traced; but "not a stone tells where he lies." The indignant exclamation of Johnson is not even yet applicable to us:

See nations slowly wise, and meanly just,

To buried merit raise the tardy bust!

A musical commemoration of the bard was celebrated in Dublin, in 1809. It was chiefly composed of his own popular pieces, and, with the impetuosity natural to Irishmen, was held twice in the same week, but never since repeated. His fame, however, depends not on piled stones," or musical commemorations. He lives in his own deathless strains. And we may safely predict, that as long as the charms of melody shall hold their sway over the human heart, so long will his countrymen remember and revere the name of Carolan.

SINCE the commencement of this work the writer has had to lament the death of an old and valued friend-the translator of CAROLAN'S REMAINS, and of other ancient relics, which enrich these volumes. He is here induced to lay before the reader a few particulars of the short career of that talented individual, and to those who sympathise over the fate of resident Irish genius, the brief and unpretending detail may not be wholly uninteresting. For some of these particulars he is indebted to a tribute which appeared soon after Mr. Furlong's death, in several periodical publications, from the pen of J. B. Whitty, Esq., the popular author of "Tales of Irish Life," and other

These admirable pictures of Irish Society have been translated into French, and reprinted in America. The author's

esteemed productions.

This gentleman, who was long

and intimately acquainted with the poet, knew how to appreciate his merits, and was eminently qualified to do justice to his memory.

This offering of disinterested friendship is prefaced with a few pointed observations on the reproachful apathy of Irishmen towards the encouragement of native genius; and the truth of the statement cannot be controverted. "Scotsmen," says the ingenious writer, "have erected a monument to BURNS, and they celebrate the anniversary of his birth: they differ as widely in politics as my countrymen, but still they do justice to each other; every man of them considers himself honored in the fame of their literati. Alas! the case is very different in Ireland: they have erected no monument to their Carolan or their Goldsmith-their Grattan or their Curran. They have no cheering anniversary-no moral landmark, to guide or stimulate their rising genius; all is sluggish and thoughtless —a dead flat surface-an uninviting uniformity-a cheerless gloom. My heart swells with indignation at this national apathy; it looks like Irish ingratitude; there is in it an implied want of national pride—a cruel indifference to the best of all claims-those of intellect. The circumstances of the times cannot justify this; it exists still. If

extensive knowledge of the History and Antiquities of Ireland, and the sound philosophic views which he has taken of its situation and affairs, ancient and modern, render a history of the country, on which he is now engaged, an object of national consideration. I cannot conclude this note without acknowledging my obligations to two intimate friends of the deceased, Messieurs MICHAEL GILLIGAN and JOHN FERRALL, merchants of Dublin, for their kind and interesting communications respecting him.

you disbelieve me, go to Drumcondra church-yard, and ask the shade of Furlong. His fate singularly illustrates the foregoing remarks.*

"This sleepless boy, who perished in his pride,' had no claims to notice but those which genius furnished; but these were of an order which gives an immortality to his name, despite the neglect of his countrymen. He was, in the words of Ferguson, one of God Almighty's nobility.' He derived no intelligible dignity from his ancestors, but he reflects back upon them a kind of posthumous vitality; he rescues them from the oblivion of the grave, and bestows upon them a lustre not the less brilliant or lasting, because it is derived from reflected rays. He owes them nothing; they become in death his debtors."

"Thomas Furlong was born in the county of Wexford, and that noble portion of Ireland has also the honor of of giving birth to Thomas Moore. Furlong's father was a respectable farmer, and our poet was born in the year 1794, at a place called Scarawalsh, a romantic part of the country, midway between Ferns and Eniscorthy. His education qualified him for the countinghouse; and, at fourteen, he was apprenticed to a respectable trader in the Irish metropolis. The ledger, however, had less attraction for him than the muses; but though he lisped in numbers,' he did not let his passion for poetry interfere with his more useful and more important duties. Through life he retained the friendship of his employer; and when that gentleman died, some years ago, he lamented his fate in a pathetic poem, entitled The Burial.

It is but justice here to state, that a handsome monument has been recently erected by Mr. Furlong's friends to his memory. But this, I rather fear, will be considered only as a solitary exception to the general charge.