versions, however, have been almost exclusively confined to the noble author's political conduct or opinions, while they pass unremarked the stated incidents of the narrative. In Frazer's Magazine, the observations, unflattering though they be, cannot yet be said to transgress the legitimate bounds of political antagonism, or literary animadversion; but the unmeasured censure of another journal, the London Quarterly, seems to betray the lurking, studied design, and anxiously sought for opportunity of exhaling some long pent up feeling of personal rancour; for nothing in the book assuredly warrants the reviewer's intemperance of applied language. The critique, on the other hand, in the Dublin University Magazine, obviously proceeded from no unfriendly source, and was, I have heard, the production of Mr. Butt, as that of the Quarterly may, I apprehend, be ascribed to Mr. Croker's mordant pen. Restricting my own remarks to the narrated facts, I shall abstain from the expression of any opinion on his lordship's political sentiments, or public course of action. But various circumstances of my life have put me in possession of information which may tend to rectify some inadvertencies, that have escaped his lordship, and to elucidate several not sufficiently unfolded occurrences of the narrative, as well as to confirm others.

The following will pretty nearly replace the omitted portion of my original article, which I introduce, not certainly for any inherent value, but in order to present, in its entireness, my view of Lord Cloncurry's book.

At page 11, the late eccentric, yet accomplished Mr. Beckford's splendid exhibition, while travelling,

is adverted to, which I can confirm; for, in December 1791, I passed from Dover to Calais, at the same time, though not in the same packet, for he occupied an entire one with his equipage, consisting of eight carriages, forty-four horses, and as many servants. Every where on the road, from the consonance of his name, he was taken for the Duke of Bedford; as son of the nobleman who, nearly thirty years before, had equally attracted the public gaze, when, in 1762, he proceeded to the court of Versailles, as the missionary of peace, which he fully concluded, after the glorious Seven Years' War, displaying, of course, all the magnificence authorised by his fortune, then reputed the largest in England. In 1799, Mr. Beckford paid £14,000 income-tax, or ten per cent. on a revenue of £140,000, the greatest individual contribution on that occasion, though inferior to what, at the present day, would be claimable from more than one nobleman, or favored son of industry, under the same rate of taxation. In Paris, he gave a grand banquet, at the cost of £2,500; but, for a considerably smaller sum, he shortly after entertained nearly the whole population, it was said, of Geneva, in a sumptuous feast, at least so considered there. As his income, however, was principally derived from West-India produce, its subsequent depreciation was most sensibly felt by him. About one hundred and twenty years since, his grandfather, Mr. Peter Beckford, (whose son was the celebrated Lord Mayor of London, who presented to George III., in 1770, the bold city remonstrance,) as I found in family papers now lost, passed two or three weeks in Cork, my grand parents' guest, while waiting for a passage to Jamaica, when, it would appear, that they were united in strict friendship.

At the period that Lord Cloncurry stopped for a certain time at Basle, as he states, in 1793, I happened also to be there, and I well recollect the frequent communication, as on neutral ground, to which he adverts at page 13, between the French royal and republican officers, as well as the latter's constant intonation of their exciting hymn, the Marseillaise, and of the formers' mournful chant from Sedaine's opera of Richard Coeur-de-lion-“O Richard!—O mon roi!" in application to the recent royal murder. This opera represents our Richard, whom Lord Cloncurry, obviously unconscious of the person and fact, transforms into Charles, as imprisoned in the castle of Lowenstein, by Leopold, Duke of Austria, on whose territory he had suffered shipwreck, and was seized by Leopold, while in the habit of a pilgrim, on his return, in 1193, from the Holy Land, in revenge for an insult offered the Austrian duke, at the siege of Ptolemaïs, (or Acre,) destined, after the lapse of nearly six centuries, to be celebrated for another siege, which, in its result, arrested Bonaparte's triumphant course in the East, as if to reserve for him a still more brilliant career in Europe. Sedaine's play, first acted, the 21st of October 1784, exhibits Richard's favorite minstrel, Blondel, as notifying to his captive sovereign, by the above mentioned chant, his concealed presence, after a long search for Richard, during his unknown fate. The success of this opera unclosed the door of the French Academy, the highest aim of literary ambition, as I have had frequent occasion to observe, for its author, who may be considered the precursor and model of M. Scribe, the present acknowledged head of French dramatists. Both are equally celebrated

for the number and success of their compositions. Gibbon's concise, but vivid description of the siege of Ptolemaïs, which lasted from July 1189, to the same month in 1191, is worth perusal, in the eleventh volume of Milman's edition of his great work.

With the Mr. Lattin mentioned before in association with the ill-fated Theobald Dillon, I had a passing acquaintance, and found him a man of some literary talent. At the commencement of this century, he published a novel, which was well received, and in which an introduced French correspondence proved him a perfect master of what is there called "l'éloquence du billet." With his family, a very ancient

catholic one, I was more intimate, and learned from his sister, a little anecdote, trifling, indeed, but not wholly unfit to rank with those of our noble author. Her father, the lady told me, was a very precise old gentleman, and a great adept at most games of cards, but more especially, at the superior ones of whist and piquet, which his friends, in his advanced years, were wont to indulge him in. Happening on a particular occasion to be engaged at the latter noble game with a young man, whose father had promised old Mr. Lattin to meet him in the evening, but, in consequence of urgent business, was obliged to send his son in his place, the young man on looking at his hand, triumphantly cried out-" You have lost the game, sir,” "How so,” replied Mr. Lattin, very cooly—“Why sir,” said his adversary, "you know that I had already marked fifty, and I can now show, "point, quint and quatorze." "Yet, young sir," retorted the senior, "it is you, not I, who have lost." "Impossibleutterly impossible," persisted the young man; "for

what can beat such cards as these?" offering to shew them. "Now," rejoined the experienced player,"be less confident in future; for the game, beyond all doubt, is mine-you cannot forget that I had already reckoned ninety, and here are the required ten in addition; for you will see, that I hold not a single coat card, and, consequently, am entitled to the advantage of misère, which, to the extent of the figure ten, takes precedence, according to the primitive rule of the game, of all your riches;"-"Res est sacra, miser," "is an old saying, and holds good, at least on this occasion," added Mr. Lattin, chuckling at his adversary's discomfiture. Mr. Lattin, the son, or, who was usually called, Pat Lattin, translated Voltaire's Henriade, in verse, but with no great success, I should have observed on mentioning his novel.

At page 14, we read, "immediately prior to the period referred to, (1793,) Le Beau Dillon, a wellknown Irish officer, who commanded that portion of the brigade that remained in the service of the revolutionary government, was dragged out of his cabriolet, and murdered by the French soldiers, upon the suspicion of his being influenced by royalist predilections. His aide-de-camp, who was in the carriage with him at the time of the murder, was my late worthy friend Pat Lattin, who immediately resigned his commission and retired to his patrimonial estate of MorristownLattin, in the county Kildare," &c. Here, I must remark, that his lordship's memory has played him signally false, for Beau Dillon and the murdered officer were very different persons, and solely cognate in identity of the family name. The former was Edward Dillon, son, as I have always understood,