Nothing in short could be more ridiculous than their conversation. They in general aimed at being sayers of good things, which some uttered with solemn pride, and others with petulant loquacity.

A lady accosted a certain nobleman: "My dear lord,” says she, "are we to expect no production of yours this season? I am so fatigued with the works of those mercenary writers for bread, that I protest if I don't see something new of yours, I shall absolutely discontinue my studies, and return to piquet." "Excuse me, madam,” replied his lordship, "I should be very willing to publish my works, if there were many such judges as you; but alas! we have neither taste, sentiment, nor genius amongst us; we are quite fallen; none are capable of distinguishing true delicacy would you think, madam, that my volume of philosophical poems would not go off, and yet the very same judges had bought Pope's Works with great eagerness ? No, madam, I shall reserve my future productions for posterity, who, I flatter myself, will give them a more favourable reception."

:

In another quarter I perceived a well-dressed poet reading his manuscript to a ragged brother, who seemed in raptures with every line of it; he praised the language, sentiment, and sublimity; shrugged up his shoulders in extasy, and flourished his hands with enthusiasm. As the emperors formerly paid poets for every line they liked, so on the contrary our ragged poet was paid for every line he happened to praise; the writer reading it to him not for the sake of his corrections but his flattery.

My attention was called off from this couple to another, where a young man dressed in shabby finery was asking another, who seemed to be a nobleman by his appearance, for a subscription. "Excuse me, sir,” replied his lordship, "I never subscribe except for prints or drawings; for I am

resolved to encourage and revive the fine arts among us, and even vie with Italy for the superiority."

Disgusted with such conversation, I was upon the point of returning back; when one of the crowd, addressing me, said, "Dear sir, won't you drink before you go? here you are got to the fountain of fine sense, and yet are going away without tasting." "What!" "replied I, is this the fountain of fine sense?" "Yes, sir," said he, "and as soon as you shall have drank of its waters, you will find yourself every wit as amiable and pleasing as the rest of the company." "Excuse me, sir," says I, "if the waters are to have the same effect upon me that I see them have upon the rest of the company, I disclaim all pretensions to fine sense, and am much better pleased with common sense.” "Ah my dear sir," returned he, with a shrug," keep your common sense for a circle of Hollanders or aldermen. Without taste, virtue, and delicacy, how insipid is every society!"

I was just upon the point of descending the mountain, when I perceived some persons at the summit; and though I knew it must cost me great pains, did what I could to join them. When with incredible labour I had gained it, I there found a second fountain, round which several persons were placed, who drank freely of its waters; and seemed at once to unite gravity, sense, and humour. Here I perceived people of all the nations of Europe entertaining each other without rancour, wrangling, or envy. There Metastasio and Maffei paid their mutual compliments, and attempted each other's improvement; there Voltaire and the royal Prussian gave and received fame reciprocally; Gresset and Piron read their works to each other with delight; and there I saw Johnson, Gray, and Mason, with some other authors of our own country, conveying strong sense in the wildest sallies of poetical enthusiasm. Pleased with the company, I was just going to take a draught of the delicious fountain, when

an old agreeable acquaintance, who had been long posted there, and who shall be nameless, welcomed me with so violent a shake by the hand that I awoke, and received no other benefit from my imaginary journey, than a certain conviction that a shallow understanding generally aspires at the reputation of wit; but true genius ever chooses to wear the appearance of good sense.

ESSAY VI.

CAROLAN, THE IRISH BARD. (1)

There can be perhaps no greater entertainment than to compare the rude Celtic simplicity with modern refinement. Books, however, seem incapable of furnishing the parallel ; and to be acquainted with the ancient manners of our own ancestors, we should endeavour to look for their remains in those countries, which, being in some measure retired from an intercourse with other nations, are still untinctured with foreign refinement, language, or breeding.

The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect preferably to all other nations I have seen. They in several parts of that country still adhere to their ancient language, dress, furniture, and superstitions; several customs exist among them that still speak their original; and in some respects, Cæsar's description of the Ancient Britons is applicable to these.

Their Bards, in particular, are still held in great venera. tion among them; those traditional heralds are invited to every funeral, in order to fill up the intervals of the howl with their songs and harps. In these they rehearse the actions of the ancestors of the deceased, bewail the bondage

(1) [For some account of Carolan, see Life, ch. i.]

of their country under the English government, and generally conclude with advising the young men and maidens to make the best use of their time, for they will soon, for all their present bloom, be stretched under the table, like the dead body before them.

Of all the Bards this country ever produced, the last and the greatest was CAROLAN THE BLIND. He was at once a poet, a muscian, a composer, and sung his own verses to his harp. The original natives never mention his name without rapture, both his poetry and music they have by heart; and even some of the English themselves, who have been transplanted there, find his music extremely pleasing. A song beginning "O Rourke's noble fare will ne'er be forgot," translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition; which, though perhaps by this means the best known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most deserving. His songs, in general, may be compared to those of Pindar, as they have frequently the same flights of imagination, and are composed (I don't say written, for he could not write) merely to flatter some man of fortune upon some excellence of the same kind. In these one man is praised for the excellence of his stable, as in Pindar,(1) another for his hospitality, a third for the beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for the antiquity of his family. Whenever any of the original natives of distinction were assembled at feasting or revelling, Carolan was generally there, where he was always ready with his harp to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature formed for his profession; for as he was born blind, so also he was possessed of a most astonishing memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which gave his

(1) ["Hiero's royal brows, whose care

Tends the courser's noble breed;

Pleas'd to nurse the pregnant mare,
Pleas'd to train the youthful steed," &c.

WEST'S Pindar, Ode i.]

entertainers infinite satisfaction. Being once at the house of an Irish nobleman, where there was a musician present, who was eminent in the profession, Carolan immediately challenged him to a trial of skill. To carry the jest forward, his Lordship persuaded the musician to accept the challenge, and he accordingly played over on his fiddle the fifth concerto of Vivaldi. Carolan, immediately taking his harp, played over the whole piece after him, without missing a note, though he had never heard it before; which produced some surprise: but their astonishment increased, when he assured them he could make a concerto in the same taste himself, which he instantly composed, and that with such spirit and elegance, that it may compare (for we have it still) with the finest compositions of Italy.

His death(1) was not more remarkable than his life. Homer was never more fond of a glass than he; he would drink whole pints of usquebaugh, and, as he used to think, without any ill consequence. His intemperance, however, in this respect, at length brought on an incurable disorder, and when just at the point of death, he called for a cup of his beloved liquor. Those who were standing round him, surprised at the demand, endeavoured to persuade him to the contrary; but he persisted, and when the bowl was brought him, attempted to drink, but could not; wherefore, giving away the bowl, he observed with a smile, that it would be hard if two such friends as he and the cup should part at least without kissing; and then expired. (2)

(1) [Carolan died in March 1738, while on a visit at the house of Mrs. Mac Dermot, of Alderford, in the county of Roscommon. He was interred in the parish church of Killronan, in the diocese of Ardagh; but "not a stone tells where he lies."]

(2) [The fertility of this bard, whose name and performances are scarcely known in England except through the medium of a few of Mr. Thomas Moore's celebrated Melodies, may interest the musical reader. It will be seen by the following catalogue from Hardy's 'Irish Minstrelsy,' that they