taken. The Catholic Association, then a powerful confederacy, voted a sum of money for the establishment of a cemetery, in whose constitution there should be no principle of religious ascendency; and, accordingly, the cemetery committee sprang into existence. The catacombs of the Established church no longer received Catholic tenants. Magnificent burial-places-in which the dust of Protestants and Catholics might mingle, sanctified too by the ceremonials of the faith in which the followers of each religion had lived and died-were established in the metropolis; and with funds raised from the operations of this scheme, the cemetery committee, amongst other honourable works, undertook the pious duty of transferring the remains of Curran to Ireland. This was attended with some difficulty, and considerable expense. It was necessary to obtain a Faculty from the Consistorial Court to warrant the proceeding. The body, however, being exhumed, and the necessary arrangements having been accomplished under the direction of an eminent undertaker, with the consent of the late Alderman Sir M. Wood, it was removed to his house in George Street, Westminster, where it lay for one night, I think, and was then transferred to Ireland, in charge of a worthy man deputed to superintend the arrangements; and being, on its arrival, received by Mr. W. H. Curran and Mr O'Kelly, a zealous member of the committee, was deposited temporarily in the mausoleum at Lyons, the residence of Curran's intimate friend, Lord Cloncurry; and it was finally removed, attended by W. H. Curran, John Finlay, Con Lyne, (who was one of the mourners at the funeral when it took place originally at Paddington,) and myself, to a grave prepared for its reception at Glasnevin, where it now reposes.

"There were some circumstances attendant on the removal of the remains from the mausoleum at Lyons to the

cemetery, which invested the proceeding with a melancholy interest. I think it was on a very gloomy day of November that the remains were removed with strict privacy to Dublin. Towards night, and as we arrived in the metropolis, the weather was marked by peculiar severity; the rain fell in torrents, and a violent storm howled, whilst the darkness was relieved occasionally by vivid lightning, accompanied by peals of thunder. This added much to the solemnity of the scene as we passed slowly through the streets, from which the violence of the night had driven almost all persons. As we approached the cemetery, where groups of workmen, by the aid of torches, were engaged in making the necessary preparation for the deposit of the remains, the scene became most impressive and affecting; and after a brief period of delay, during which all around stood with uncovered heads as the body of the great Irishman was lowered to its place of final repose, the scene was marked by every feature of a grand and impressive picture of devotion. A magnificent monument of granite, from the design of Papworth, on the model of the tomb of Scipio, with the simple and impressive inscription of the name "CURRAN," is placed over the remains. The cost of this erection, as well as of a beautiful monument with a medallion likeness in relief, in St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, the work of the sculptor Moore, was defrayed by a public subscription, to which John Finlay, J. S. Corballis, and myself, were trustees. The officers of the Cathedral of St Patrick, who were entitled to certain fees on the erection of this monument, generously claimed to add the amount of these fees to the common object.-Yours ever truly,

"LONDON, October 1850."

A. CAREW O'DWYER.

It had been proposed that this ceremonial should have

been public, and performed amid all the pageantry of a national procession. To this, however, neither the good taste nor the good feeling of his son would assent. Thus at length, at the end of many years, the prophetic words of Curran were verified-" The last duties will be paid by that country on which they are devolved; nor will it be for charity that a little earth will be given to my bones. Tenderly will those duties be paid, as the debt of wellearned affection and of gratitude not ashamed of her tears."

APPENDIX

MR CURRAN'S SPEECH IN REPLY, FOR THE PLAINTIFF, IN MASSEY v. THE MARQUIS OF HEADFORD.

NEVER so clearly as in the present instance have I observed that safeguard of justice which Providence has placed in the nature of man. Such is the imperious dominion with which truth and reason wave their sceptre over the human intellect, that no solicitation, however artful-no talent, however commanding—can seduce it from its allegiance. In proportion to the humility of our submission to its rule do we rise into some faint emulation of that ineffable and presiding Divinity, whose characteristic attribute it is to be coerced and bound by the inexorable laws of its own nature, so as to be all-wise and alljust from necessity rather than election. You have seen it in the learned advocate who has preceded me most peculiarly and strikingly illustrated. You have seen even his great talents, perhaps the first in any country, languishing under a cause too weak to carry him, and too heavy to be carried by him. He was forced to dismiss his natural candour and sincerity, and, having no merits in his case, to take refuge in the dignity of his own manner, the resources of his own ingenuity, from the overwhelming difficulties with which he was surrounded. Wretched client! unhappy advocate! what a combination do you form! But such is the condition of guilt-its commission mean and tremulous-its defence artificial and insincere-its prosecution candid and simple—its condemnation dignified and

austere. Such has been the defendant's guilt—such his defence -such shall be my address to you-and such, I trust, your verdict. The learned counsel has told you that this unfortunate woman is not to be estimated at forty thousand pounds— fatal and unquestionable is the truth of this assertion. Alas! gentlemen, she is no longer worth anything; faded, fallen, degraded, and disgraced, she is worth less than nothing! But it is for the honour, the hope, the expectation, the tenderness, and the comforts that have been blasted by the defendant, and have fled for ever, that you are to remunerate the plaintiff by the punishment of the defendant. It is not her present value which you are to weigh; but it is her value at that time when she sat basking in a husband's love, with the blessing of Heaven on her head, and its purity in her heart; when she sat amongst her family, and administered the morality of the parental board. Estimate that past value-compare it with its present deplorable diminution—and it may lead you to form some judgment of the severity of the injury, and the extent of the compensation.

The learned counsel has told you, you ought to be cautious, because your verdict cannot be set aside for excess. The assertion is just; but has he treated you fairly by its application? His cause would not allow him to be fair; for, why is the rule adopted in this single action? Because, this being peculiarly an injury to the most susceptible of all human feelings, it leaves the injury of the husband to be ascertained by the sensibility of the jury, and does not presume to measure the justice of their determination by the cold and chilly exercise of its own discretion. In any other action it is easy to calculate. If a tradesman's arm is cut off, you can measure the loss which he has sustained; but the wound of feeling, and the agony of the heart, cannot be judged by any standard with which I am acquainted. And you are unfairly dealt with when you are called on to appreciate the present suffering of the husband by the present guilt, delinquency, and degradation of his wife. As well might you, if called on to give compensation to a man for the murder of his dearest friend, find the measure of his injury by weighing the ashes of the dead. But it is not, gentlemen of the jury, by weighing the ashes of the dead that you would estimate the loss of the survivor.