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THE SPECTATOR'S LIBRARY.

MR. MooRE seems to dread lest his Life of Lord Edward Fitz- gerald should be thought too applicable to the condition of pre- sent affairs, and has even deliberated upon the propriety of with- holding a work which may be looked upon as commenced with a reference to existing circumstances. " In order," says he, " to guard against the suspicion of having been influenced in my choice of the subject of this work by any view to its apt accordance with the political feeling of the day, I think it right to state, that the design of writing a life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald had been taken up by me some months before any of those events occurred which have again given to the whole face of Europe so revolutionary an aspect. I question, indeed, whether this fear lest the public should mis- take my object, and consider as meant for the occasion what is intended as historical, would not have prevented me, were I now to choose, from undertaking such a work at such a juncture."

Anybody else, but a Whig of the most fastidious complexion, would have rejoiced that an historical work, accidentally under- taken, should be completed at the precise time when it was likely to be useful. But a genuine Whig must neither be useful nor oc- casional ; his dignify suffers by his aptitude. When he is wanted, he must hold off; his motives must always be so pure, that his actions are not to be brought to bear ; and in order to be exempt from suspicion, he will prefer to bury himself and his talents. Of all men, Whigs are the least practical : they are concentrations of political virtue—too pure or too proud to do any good : they are so truly respectable, that lest they should do any thing undignified they will do nothing. Business soils their hands. What can be so truly ridiculous as an author lamenting that the subject of his work is in " apt accordance with the political feeling of the day ?" and who could fancy such a proceeding dignified, but a Whig of the most exquisite order? If a general, manceuvering his troops according to certain abstract principles of war, were to manage to catch his enemy in the position in which they were above all others most easily defeated, and were to lament the occasional nature of his movement, he would do in tactics what Mr. Moors now does in politics.

We, on the contrary, rejoice that Mr. MOORE'S picture of re- volutionary times just falls upon the world when events are criti- cal, and while something may be learned and applied. The history of Lord EDWARD FITZGERALD is in part the history of the Irish Rebellion of 1796 ; when that country, exasperated by the tyranny and injustice of its Government, resolved upon re- sistance. The right of resistance on the part of the people, no one now denies—least of all in the face of the success of France, if we may not add Belgium. But who is to be the judge of that measure of tyranny which shall justify resistance ? who shall de- fine the limits of toleration on the part of the people, or fix the extent of a government's coercive power? - No one has done this —no one can do it. The fact is, that passive obedience is an old and obsolete Tory doctrine—the right of resistance an obsolete old Whig doctrine ; and between the two there is not much to choose. If the right of resistance is the only check that Whig wisdom can discover, it is of the same character with all the rest of their superfine intelligence—of no use. It is allowed that no one can fix where resistance is to begin, and no one can tell where it will end : which is as much as to say, that it is a right in the clouds, and which it is vain to think of as a safeguard against ty- ranny and oppression. The right of the people is, not to resist oppression, but to secure equal law: this is only to be done by perfect representation, and until that is gained, no nation should stand still. Here is something more tangible than the theory of either Whig or Tory. Government is for the interests of all: if it be in the hands of a class, is it not clear, on the universal prin- ciple of looking at home, that government will be perverted for the interests of that class ? If, by means of representation, it be in the hands of all, it will be wielded for all. By representation, is not meant representation of opinions, but representation of in- terests, by means of delegates who understand them. Who is best qualified to say what the cotton-spinners want ?—is it an idle young lord? is it a country squire? is it a poet, or a London banker ? The cotton-spinners will be able to say. Now, what was the situation of Ireland when that which is called the Rebellion took place ? There was no representation ; but money was extracted from the country to pay a certain set of men for keeping up the farce of one. The government was not in the hands of a single tyrant—that would have been a comparative bless- ing; but the country was delivered over, bound hand and foot, to a inultitude of petty tyrants, who engaged, for the sake of allthey could get, to keep it safe for their employer, of the neighbouring island. Promise, tantalize, oppress, torture, wheedle, coerce, slaughter, burn, destroy, rob, ruin, or reward-; but-well and drity-knepaa- this was the commission of the Irish Government. Forms were a farce. A good, easy man would be sent over for a Viceroy ; men of ability would be employed as Ministers ; but all this was idle and empty parade—the nation was in the hands of a faction, bound and trampled upon. The case of Ireland was somewhat like the claimant to a throne in the power of the usurper: some- times he is kept chained in secret dungeons, sometimes he is per- mitted a delusive enlargement ; • now he is cajoled, and now thrown into irons ; a murmur is treated with torture, a show of resistance with some temporary palliation of misery. Better far to smother both fear and hope in death—but the tyrant has a conscience, forsooth, and will not murder !

That Ireland should have repeatedly struggled to free herself from galling fetters, is not surprising: her history is a hook of martyrs : but it is surprising that she has not been successful. The gaoler has been too hard for her. At the period of this his- tory, the country was saved to England by the chances of a tempest alone. But for that tempest, what must have been the result to Britain ? In all human probability, we should, like the rest of Europe, have been subjected to the tender mercies of France. And on whose head would have been the wrong?—on that of a govern- ment we are still imbecile enotigh to remember with respect. Of all the martyrs in the holy cause of liberty, perhaps Lord EDWARD FITZGERALD was the purest and most magnanimous. Let every one read his life and character ; it is a chapter in the history of mankind which ennobles the whole race. The materials of forming an unerring judgment of his character, dis- position, views, temper, and talents, are here all before us in his private and most confidential letters to his mother and nearest friends, and in theirs to one another. The leading trait of his character was the affectionateness of his heart: he overflowed with kindness and good-will to all, but those he loved he loved with a fondness almost feminine, and as true as well as tender as the fondness of a woman. Next among the marks of his cha- racter, conies his frank disinterestedness: he had no selfish views— wanted nothing—and was as unartificial in all his habits and wishes as the Indian of the woods. His bravery was as conspi- cuous as his unselfishness—he least of all men knew the nature of fear. His tastes were simple, his habits generous ; his income, ample with his views, was chiefly employed in the unostentatious service of others. Such a man is evidently made to be adored in private life; more especially when is added to other qualifications, beauty and vigour of person, aristocratic lineage, and amiable manners. We accordingly find, that in the illustrious circle of his relatives and private friends, he was literally worshipped. Such was the man whom the acts of 'the Irish Government drove into re- bellion—in opposition to his tastes, his interests, his private feel- ings—to all but his sense of justice and his patriotism. The fad itself is the last condemnation of its measures.

A more dangerous person could not have been forced among the ranks of the people. His military experience in America, where he greatly distinguished himself—his military talents, which, had he lived, would probably have made him the first ge- neral we have had—his great personal strength, and power of enduring fatigue, acquired in long and adventurous expeditions in the forests of Nova Scotia and Canada—all pointed him out as the treasure alone wanted to the numerous and undisciplined armies of the native Irish. In addition to which, he was of a family superstitiously venerated in the country, and which, by the blood of more than one martyr, was pledged to the cause of Ireland and its people. Mr. MOORE'S life of this noble young man consists almost en- tirely of original letters from himself and his uncle the Duke of RicinioNnt his brother Lord HENRY, some from his friend CHARLES Fox ; but most from his two aunts, Lady SARAH NAPIER (the mother of the historian of the Peninsular War), and Lady LOUISA CONOLLY,—both at that time resident in Dublin, and, from their position and connexions, excellent witnesses of the events of the time. Some short extracts from these letters, illus- trative of the true character of Lord EDWARD FITZGERALD, Win be interesting in several points of view. In 1788, when the services of the army were not required, Lord EDWARD preferred a foreign station to remaining at home. He was some time in Nova Scotia ; and perhaps in that primitive country he first became aware of the emptiness of artificial dis- tinctions, and of the hollowness of many of the pretensions of the privileged classes. He spent much of his time in rambling in the thinly settled parts of the country ; and the following is "a quiet and affecting picture of an evening in the woods." Mr. MOolta observes, "the writer of it was a poet without knowing it."

" The old settlers are almost as wild as Indians, but lead a very cora. fortable life ; they are all farmers, and live entirely within themselves. They supply all their own wants by their contrivances, so that they sel- dom buy any thing. They ought to be the happiest people in the world, but they do not seem to know it. They imagine themselves poor because they have no money, without considering they do not want it : every thing is done by barter, and you will often find a farmer well supplied with every thing, and yet not having a shilling in money. Any man that will work is sure, in a few years, to have a comfortable farm: the first eighteen months is theonly hard time, and that in most places is avoided, particularly near the rivers, for in every one of them a man will catch in a day enough to feed him for the year. In the winter, with very little trouble, he supplies himself with meat by killing moose deer ; and in. summer with pigeons, of which the woods are full. These he must sub- sist on till he has cleared ground enough to raise a little grain, which a hard-working man will do in the course of a few months. By selling his moose skins, making sugar out of the maple tree, and by a few daYst

work for other people, for which he gets great wages, he soon acquires enough to purchase a cow. This then, sets him up ; and he is sure, in a few years, to have a comfortable supply of every necessary of life. I came through a whole tract of country peopled by Irish, who came out not worth a shilling, and have all now farms, worth (according to the va- lue of money in this country) from 1,000/. to 3,0001.

" The equality of everybody, and of their manner of life, I like very much. There are no gentlemen; every body is on a footing, provided he works and wants nothing ; every man is exactly what he can make him- self, or has made himself by industry. The more children a man has, the better : his wife being brought to bed is as joyful news as his cow calv. ing; the father has no uneasiness about providing for them, as this is done by the profit of their work. By the time they are fit to settle, he can always afford them two oxen, a cow, a gun, and an axe ; and in a few years, if they work, they will thrive.

" I came by a settlement along one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair ; the old man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy ; they had been there thirty years ; they came there with one cow, three children, and one servant ; there was not a living being within sixty miles of them. The first year they lived mostly on milk and marsh leaves ; the second year they contrived to purchase a bull, by the produce of their moose skins and fish : from this time they got on very well ; and there are now five sons and a daughter all settled in different farms along the river for the space of twenty miles, and all living' comfortablyand at ease. The old pair live alone in the little log cabin they first settled in, two miles from any of their children ; their little spot of ground is cul- tivated by these children, and they are supplied with so much butter, grain, meat, &c., from each child, according to the share he got of the land ; so that the old folks have nothing to do but to mind their house, which is a kind of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of the few travellers there are, than for gain. It I was obliged to stay a day with the old people, on account of the tides, which did not answer for going up the river till next morning; it was, I think, as odd and as pleasant a day (in its way) as ever I passed. I wish I could describe it to you, but I cannot; you must only help it out with your own imagination. Conceive, dearest mother, arriving about twelve o'clock in a hot day at a little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks all covered with woods, not a house in sight,—and there find- ing a little old clean tidy woman spinning, with an old man of the same appearance weeding salad. We had come for ten miles up the river with- out seeing any thing but woods. The old pair, on our arrival, got as ac- tive as if only five-and- twenty—the gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying bacon and eggs—both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I mentioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how their children were settled, and when either's back was turned re- marking how old the other had grown ; at the same time all kindness, cheerfulness, and love to each other.

" The contrast of all this, which had passed during the day, with the quietness of the evening, when the spirits of the old people had a little subsided, and began to wear off with the day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years together, the contented thoughtfulness of their coun- tenances, which was increased by their age and the solitary life they had led, the wild quietness of the place, not a living creature or habitation to be seen, and me, Tony, and our guide, sitting with them, all on one log. The difference of the scene I had left,—the immense way T had to get from this little corner of the world, to see any thing I loved,—the dif- ference of the life I should lead from that of this old pair, perhaps at their age discontented, disappointed, and miserable, wishing for power, &c., &c.,—my dearest mother, if it was not for you, I believe 1 never should go home, at least I thought so at that moment.'"

Lord EDWARD came to the same conclusion with the sage and cautious JEFFERSON, that " such societies (as the Indians), which Jive without government, enjoy in their general mass an infinitely greater degree of happiness than those who live under the European Governments." " 1 know Ogilvie says I ought to have been a savage, and if it were not that the people I love and wish to live with are civilized people, and like houses, Sec. &c., I really would join the savages ; and, leaving all our fic- titious, ridiculous wants, be what nature intended we should be. Savages have all the real happiness of life, without any of those inconveniences, or ridiculous obstacles to it, which custom has introduced among us. They enjoy the love and company of their wives, relations, and friends, without any interference of interests or ambition to separate them. To bring things home to oneself, if we had been Indians, instead of its being my duty to be separated from all of you, it would, on the contrary, be my duty to be with you, to make you comfortable, and to hunt and fish for you : instead of Lord * *'s being violent against letting me marry G • *, he would be glad to give her to me, that I might maintain and feed her. There would be then no cases of looking forward to the fortune for children,—of thinking how you are to live : no separations in families, one in Ireland, one in England : no devilish politics, no fashions, customs, duties, or appearances to the world, to interfere with one's happiness. Instead of being served and supported by servants, every thing here is done by one's relations—by the people one loves ; and the mutual obli- gations you must be under increase your love for each other. To be sure, the poor ladies are obliged to cut a little wood and bring a little water. Now the dear Ciss and Mimi, instead of being with Mrs. Lynch, would be carrying wood and fetching water, while ladies Lucy and Sophia were cooking or drying fish. As for you, dear mother, you would be smoking your pipe. Ogilvie and us boys, after having brought in our game, would be lying about the fire, while our squaws were helping the ladies to cook, or taking care of our papouses: all this in a fine wood, beside some beautiful lake, which when you were tired of, you would in ten minutes, without any baggage, get into your canoes, and off with you elsewhere." With the charms of his adventurous journey across a tract of country that was not passed even by Indians, from Halifax to Quebec, he seems to have been deeply smitten ; and he dwells upon its incidents with an animation which shows how congenial With his nature was the vigorous and hardy life of the woods.

" 'You may guess how eager I am to try if I like the woods in winter as well as in summer. I believe I shall never again be prevailed on to live in a house. I long to teach you all how to make a good spruce bed. Three of the coldest nights we have had yet, I slept in the woods with only one blanket, and was just as comfortable as in a room. It was in a party with General. Carleton, we went about twenty miles from this to look at a fine tract of land that had been passed over in winter. You may guess how I enjoyed this expedition, beingwhere, in all probability, there had never been but one person before : we struck the land the first night, and lay there ; we spent three days afterwards in going over it. It will be now fOonsettled. I cannot describe all the feelings one has in these =urn sions, when one wakens,—perhaps in the middle of the night, in a fine open forest, all your companions snoring about you, the moon shining through the trees, the burning of the fire,—in short, every thing strikes you. Dearest, dearest mother, how I have thought of you at those times, and of all at dear Frescati ! and after being tired of thinking, lying down like a dog, and falling asleep till day-break ; then getting up, no dressing, or clothing, or trouble, but just givineb oneself a shake, and away to the spring to wash one's face. I have had two parties with the savages which. are still pleasanter,—you may guess the reason—there are des dames, who are the most comical creatures in the world.' " a • a • • " I have been out hunting, and like it very much, it makes me tin peu mirage, to be sure. I am to set out in two days for Canada; it is a journey of one hundred and seventy-five miles, and I go straight through the woods. There is an officer of the regiment goes with me. We make altogether a party of five,—Tony, two woodsmen, the officer, and myself. We take all our provision with us on tabargins. It will appear strange to you, or any people in England, to think of starting in February, with four feet snow on the ground, to march through a desert wood of one hundred and seventy-five miles; but it is nothing. You may guess we have not much baggage. it will be a charming journey, I think, and quite new. We are to keep, a reckoning the same as at sea. I am to steer, but under the direction of a woodsman." • • • " I The hours here (at Quebec) are a little inconvenient to us as yet : whenever we wake at night, we want to eat, the same as in the woods, and as soon as we eat, we want to sleep. In our journey we were always up two hours before day to load and get ready to march ; we used to stop between three and four, and it generally took us from that till night to shovel out the snow, cut wood, cook, and get ready for night; so that immediately after our suppers, we were asleep, and whenever any one wakes in the night, he puts some wood on the fire, and eats a bit before he lies down again ; but for my part, I was not much troubled with waking in the night. " ' I really do think there is no luxury equal to that of lying before a good fire, on a good spruce bed, after a good supper, and a hard moose chase in a fine clear frosty moonlight starry night. But to enter into the spirit of this, you must understand what a moose chase is: the man him. self runs the moose down by pursuing the track. Your success in killing depends on the number of people you have to pursue and relieve one an. other in going first (which is the fatiguing part of snow-shoeing), and on the depth and hardness of the snow ; for when the snow is hard and has a crust, the moose cannot get on, as it cuts his legs, and then he stops to make battle. But when tie snow is soft, though it be above his belly, he will go on, three, four or five days, for then the man cannot get on so fast, as the snow is heavy, and he only gets his game by perseverance, —an Indian never gives him up. " We had a tine chase after one, and ran him down in a day and a half, though the snow was very soft ; but it was so deep the animal was up to his belly every step. We started him about twelve o'clock one day, left our baggage, took three days' bread, two days' pork, our axe and fireworks, and pursued. He beat us at first all to nothing; towards evening we had a sight of him, but he beat us again : we encamped that night, eat our bit of pork, and gave chase again, as soon as we could see the track in the morning. In about an hour we roused the fellow again, and off he set, fresh to all appearance as ever • but in about two hours after we perceived his steps grew shorter, and some time after we got sight. He still, however, beat us ; but at last we evidently perceived ha began to tire ; we saw he began to turn oftener; we got accordingly con.. rage, and pursued faster, and at last, for three quarters of an hour, ia fine open wood, pursued him all the way in sight, and came within shot; —he stopped, but in vain, poor animal 1 " 'I cannot help being sorry now for the poor creature,—and was then; At first it was charming, but as soon as we had him in our .power, it was melancholy ; however, it was soon over, and it was no pain to him. If it was not for this last part, it would be a delightful amusement. I am.

i

sorry to say, though, that in a few hours the good passion wore off„. and the animal one predominated. I enjoyed most heartily the eating him and cooking him ;—in short, I forgot the animal, and only thought of my hunger 'and fatigue. We are beasts, dearest mother, I am sorry to say it. In two days after, we joined our baggage, and pursued our journey.'"

• a • • • "' I must make haste and finish my letter, for I am just going to set off. I shall be at Michilimackinack in nineteen days. My journey then will be soon over, for from that I shall soon reach the Mississippi, and down it to New Orleans, and then to my dearest mother to Frescati, to relate all my journey in the little book-room. I shall then be happy. Give my love to all. I think often of you all in these wild woods ; they are better than rooms. Ireland and England will be too little for me when I go home. If I could carry my dearest mother about with me, I should be completely happy here."

•• • • • " 'I long to be set a-going again,—it is the only chance I have. I set out to-morrow. I have got a canoe, with five men,—every thing is laid in :—I am obliged to have one to myself to carry a few presents for the Indian villages I pass through. Except Indian corn and grease, we de.. pend entirely on chance for every thing else. You cannot conceive how pleasant this way of travelling is : it is a hunting or shooting party the whole way: I find I can live very well on Indian corn and grease; it sounds bad, but it is not so : I eat nothing else for four days coming here. Few people know how little is necessary to live. What is called and thought hardship is nothing: one unhappy feeling is worse than a thou- sand years of it.'" When the French Revolution broke out, Lord EDWARD was in England; and he hastened to Paris, to be a witness of the scenes of generous excitement with which that grand drama opened. He there married. His bride was PAMELA, the adopted daughter of Madame GENLIS, whose beauty and accomplishments were so celni brated : she was in fact the actual daughter of Madame GENLIff and the Duke of ORLEANS, the father of the present King of the French. Madame GENLIS had given her the name of Sims; and in the marriage documents she is called a native of a place which does not exist—" Fogo in Newfoundland." With this amiable and beautiful person he enjoyed uninterrupted happiness, till the events of Ireland drew him into their vortex, and finally put an end to his career, at the age of thirty-four. Of his tastes and pursuits in the interval between his marriage and his junction with the United Irishmen, the following fragments from his letters give most ple5i.ging indications.

"' Frescad, 6th February 1794.

4" I have got an under-gardener (myself) to prepare some spots for flowers, and to help Tim. I have been hard at work today and part of yesterday (by the by, weather so hot, I go without coat, and the birds singing like spring), cleaning the little corner to the right of the house, digging round roots of trees, raking ground, and planting thirteen two-year old laurels, and Portugal laurels. I have also trimmed the rose- trees. The flowers and shrubs had all got out of the little green paling;— I am now putting them inside, and mean only to have a border of prim- roses and polyanthus outside, if I have any. I mean from thence to go to the rosery, and then to the little new planted corner. I am to have hyacinths, jonquils, pinks, cloves, narcissuses, &c. in little beds before the house, and in the rosery. Some parts of the long round require a great deal of pruning, and trees to be cut ; if you trust me, I think I could do it prudently, and have the wood laid by. There are numbers of trees quite spoiling one another.

" ' God bless you, dear mother, I am now going to make my gardener work, for he does nothing if I am not with him. Pamela sends you her love ; hers and mine to all the rest. Bless you all : this is too fine a day to stay longer writing. I wish to God you were here.' " • • • • •

" 20th October 1794.

"The dear wife and baby go on as well as possible. I think I need not tell you how happy I am ; it is a dear little thing, and very pretty now, though at first it was quite the contrary. I did not write to you the first night, as Emily had done so. I wrote to Me. Sillery that night and to-day, and shall write her an account every day till Pam is able to write herself. I wish I could show the baby to you all—dear mother, how you would love It ! Nothing is so delightful as to see it in its dear mother's arms, with her sweet, pale, delicate face, and the pretty looks she gives it.

" By the by, dearest mother, I suppose you won't have any objection to be its godmother, though I own I feel scrupulous, as you were so kind to her about her lying-in clothes; and I do hate taking your poor guineas for such foolish nonsense ; but still I like, as there are such things, that it should be you. Charles Fox and Leinster are to be the godfathers.' " • • • • • "" I have been busy these few last days, preparing to go to the coun- try. I have sent off dear Pam and the baby to-day, and follow to-mor- row : they are both well—have been both out walking. Pam gets strong, and the little fellow fat and saucy : he has taken such a fancy for the can- dle, that it is almost impossible to make him sleep at night. A cradle he don't like, and wants always to have his cheek on his mamma's breast. He every day grows, I think, like me in his mouth and nose ; but the eyes I don't yet make out. Dearest mother, I try to give you details of things that will interest you; and if our dear Lucy is better, I know they will. It is terrible to have her thus: to have all that good-nature, soft- ness, and gayety subdued by sickness, goes to one's heart.' " • • • •

4" My little place is much improved by a few things I have done, and by all my planting—by the by, I doubt if I told you of my flower-garden —I got a great deal from Frescati. I have been at Kildare since Pam's lying-in, and it looked delightful, though all the leaves were off the trees,—but so comfortable and snug. I think I shall pass a delightful winter there. I have got two fine large clumps of turf, which look both comfortable and pretty. I have paled in my little flower-garden before my hall door, with a lath paling, like the cottage, and stuck it full of roses, sweetbrier, honeysuckles, and Spanish broom. I have got all my beds ready for my flowers; ao you may guess how I long to be down to plant them. The little fellow will be a great addition to the party. I think when I am down there with Pam and child, of a blustery evening, with a good turf fire, and a pleasant book, coming in, after seeing my poultry put up, my garden settled, flower-beds and plants covered, for fear of frost,—the place looking comfortable and taken care of, I shall be as happy as possible ; and sure I am I shall regret nothing but not being nearer my dearest mother, and her not being of our party. It is, indeed, a drawback and a great one, our not being more together. Dear Mal- vern I how pleasant we were there : you can't think how this time of year puts me in mind of it. Love always your affectionate son.' " Of these and similar letters, Mr. MOORE well observes, that " it is impossible not to feel how strange and touching is the contrast between those pictures of a happy home which they so unaffectedly exhibit, and that dark and troubled sea of conspiracy and revolt into which the amiable writer of them so soon afterwards plunged ; nor can we so easily bring ourselves to believe that the joyous tenant of this lithe Lodge, the happy husband and father, dividing the day between his child and his flowers, could be the same man who but a year or two afterwards placed himself at the head of rebel myriads, negotiated on the frontiers of France for an alliance against England, and but seldom laid down his head without a prospect of being summoned thence to the scaffold or the fleld."— Vol. I. p. 255.

Lord EDWARD'S connexion with the troubled politics of his native country was short and eventful. It was scarcely known to have commenced, when it was proclaimed with a 1,0001. reward for his apprehension. His reputation as it were exploded ; and the catastrophe was his violent seizure, his wounds, and death, aggra- vated by the insults of his gaolers and the execution of his fellow- prisoners at his door. When the wretched informer who betrayed Lord EDWARD FITZGERALD had put the Government in possession of the facts which authorized the issue of the warrant, Lord EDWARD was obliged to resort to disguise, in order to evade his pursuers ; and he might easily have left the kingdom. Personal safety, however, was far from his thoughts: he staid behind be-. cause his presence was necessary to the designs of his countrymen. And amidst his own recklessness, and the little caution of some of his fellow-conspirators, it is surprising that he was able to remain in security so long, in Dublin and its immediate neighbourhood. Its hour at length came : treachery was again busy, and his apart- anent was entered by the famous Major SIRR, the town-major, Major Swarm, a magistrate, and Mr. RYAN, a newspaper editor and a volunteer in the business. Lord EDWARD had taken off hiscoat, and was lying down on the bed. SWANN and RYAN preceded the Town- major, who was arranging the piquets below. SWANN states that Lord EDWARD sprung up " like a tiger :" he had a dagger concealed about him: SWANN tired his pistol, and when Major SIRR entered, site found all three struggling on the iloor,—Lord EDWARD having the superiority over his assailants, whom he was dragging after him towards the door. SIRR took a deliberate aim and shot him in the shoulder ; but such was his strength and vigour, that he was not secured without the bayonets of the guard. RYAN died' of the multitude of wounds he had received from the dagger ; SWANN was severely wounded. Lord EDWARD was taken to the. Castle, where his wounds were dressed ; and from thence he was transferred to the Dublin Newgate, by order of the magistrates, on the score of RYAN'S dangerous condition. It was for some time supposed that the wounds of the unhappy young man were not dangerous : and great efforts were made to put off his trial till the agitation of the period had somewhat sub- sided: death. however, interposed, and he was never summoned before any earthly tribunal. Among the painful circumstances at- tending his last days, is the inhumanity of the authorities of the Go- vernment, who refused till the very last moment all admission to his cell. His affectionate brother, Lord HENRY, who had flown to. Dublin, beseeched, as he had never before beseeched any one; Lord CAMDEN, the Viceroy, for permission to see the dying prisoner—in vain : the consolation of an interview with his wife (who was indeed immediately sent out of Ireland), or any of his female relatives, was also denied to Lord EDWARD. Nay, the very formality of making his will was loaded with needless and strange cruelty: he was obliged to make it through the medium of his surgeon, who carried the paper of instructions backwards and forwards to the lawyer, who sat at the door of the gaol in a coach. Lord HENRY FITZGERALD, after his brother's death, wrote a letter to Lord CAMDEN, upbraiding him with wanton cruelty, and, under the indignant feelings naturalto the occasion, expressed in the strongest terms his abhorrence of his Lordship's conduct. Mr. MOORE tells us that it would be an injustice to both parties to publish this letter entire. The republication of the truths it tells, would doubt- less have been unpalatable to the noble Lord, who has long been making a pecuniary amende, in the relinquished gains of a vast sinecure, for the atrocities he permitted during his lord-lieutenancy. Mr. MOORE also makes a Whig excuse, on the score of the noble. Lord's having no other share in the actions of his own govern- ment, than what arose out of the " lamentable weakness with which he surrendered his own humane views to the over-ruling- violence of others." How Whiggish is this answer to an indig- nant people ! The aristocrat was a fool, and therefore no criminal! It is about as rational as Mr. MOORE'S threnodium over the apt- ness of his publication—and as sincere. Mr. MOORE, in his heart, laments as much as any body the absurdity of those prejudices which push rank into the seat of wisdom arid ability, and thus sa- crifice the true interests of the nation to those of a class.

The following paragraph will show how Mr. MOORE has pub- lished this letter full of agony. "' Thus, situated as he was, who would have thought, my Lord, but that, upon my arrival, you would yourself have urged me to see him ? After this came my audience of your Excellency :—* • I implored, entreated of you, to let me see him. I never begged hard before. All, all in vain ! you talked of lawyers' opinions; of what had been refused to others, and could not be granted for me in the same situation. His was not a common case ;—he was not in the same situation : he was wounded, and in a manner dying, and his bitterest enemy could not have mur- mured, had your heart been softened, or had you swerved a little from_ duty (if it can be called one) in the cause of humanity. "

" In the evening of the same day, the surgeons told me that the symp- toms of death were such as made them think that he would not last out the night. Then, I believe, the Almighty smote your consciences ! Lady Louisa and myself indeed saw him, three hours before he breathed his last, in the grated room of Newgate. God help you! that was the extent of your charity. This was your justice in mercy,—but I will not embit- ter the sweet remembrance of that scene, which I hope will go with m through life, by mistimed asperity, nor will I dare to talk of it * • * • • • • r„ " Mygrief has plunged me deeper into correspondence with you than I at first wished ; but to recount a brother's sufferings, a brother's wrongs, and, above all, his patience, is, and will be, my duty to the end of my life. I will complain for him, though his great heart never uttered a com- plaint for himself, from the day of his confinement. My Lord, you did not know him, and happy is it for you. He was no common being. I have now eased my mind of a part of the load that oppressed it, and shall now conclude, returning thanks to that kind Providence that directed my steps to Ireland, just in time to discover and be the recorder of these foul deeds' "

After Lord EDWARD'S death, his body was scarcely permitted to be buried: a bill of attainder was brought in against him and his heirs ; and, in short, ruin in every form was let loose upon all he left behind, and, as far as such instruments could disgrace any thing, disgrace was heaped upon his memory. It is creditable to the late King, who took great interest in Lord EDWARD while alive, that the attainder was taken off in his reign. The son of Lord EDWARD is an officer in the Army, and served' with distinction during the Peninsular War. In this interesting work, Mr. MOORE has performed his task with taste and judgment. He is rather the editor of letters and papers than a biographer. He has, however, carried on the thread of their narrative and supplied the chasms with skill. His general views of Irish politics are liberal and enlightened.