“A Scotchman and Irishman went out to fight, Both equal in fierceness, both equal in fright; Not a pin, ’twixt the heroes, in valour to choose, The son of the _Scissors_, and son of the Muse.” The whole affair was an illustration of the barbaric absurdity of duelling. Lord Brougham was subsequently supposed to be the layer on of the critical lash. If Jeffrey had given him up, Moore would have shot him if he could; and if Brougham had survived, he would have shot Jeffrey. Thus, two of the cleverest men of their day might have been victims to the bastard chivalry of the nineteenth century. How Moore himself would have fared in the fray, no one can tell; but being as honourably savage as any of his countrymen, and as untameable as a tiger-cat, he would certainly have shot somebody, or got pistolled himself. His next work was an opera. This attempt did not encourage him in trial of the stage. It had but a brief existence. Moore, though lively, was not a wit; and though inventive, was not dramatic. The inimitable “Duenna” of the inimitable Sheridan has expelled all Opera from the English stage, by extinguishing all rivalry. But a broader opportunity now spread before him. A musical collector in Ireland had compiled a volume of the Native melodies, which, though generally rude in science, and always accompanied by the most aboriginal versification, attracted some publicity. Moore, in his happiest hour, glanced over these songs, and closed with the proposal of a publisher in Ireland to write the poetry, and bring the melodies themselves into a _civilised_ form. The latter object he effected by the assistance of Stevenson, an accomplished musician, and even a popular composer: the former might be safely intrusted to himself. It is to be remembered (though Ireland may be wroth to the bottom of its sensibilities) that its most remote musical pedigree falls within the last century; that all beyond is shared with Scotland; and that the harmonies which Ossian shook from his harp, and which rang in the palaces of Fingal, and the nursing of Romulus and Remus, have equal claims to authenticity. Beyond the last century, the claims of Ireland to music were disputed by Scotland; and there was a species of partnership in their popular airs. But the true musician of Ireland was Carolan, a blind man who wandered about the houses of the country gentlemen, like Scott’s minstrel, except that his patriotism was less prominent than his love of eating and drinking. He thought more of pay than of Party, and limited his Muse to her proper subjects—Love and Wine. But he was a musician by nature, and therefore worth ten thousand by art; and the finest melodies in Moore’s portfolio were the product of a mind which had no master, and no impulse but its genius.